


Ghosts

by AvaKelly



Series: Phantasmagoria [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood and Gore, Can these tags get any longer..., Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Needs a Hug, Clint gets bit in the ass by feels, First Time, Hawkeye's a little twisted, Hurt/Comfort, Jarvis is sentient, M/M, Nightmares, Steve needs more than one hug, Steve's more than what everyone thinks, Surprising discoveries, They did have condoms in the 40s!, Trafficking, Violence, and lube!, evil granny, mission, undercover op
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-03
Updated: 2014-10-06
Packaged: 2018-02-19 16:33:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2395250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaKelly/pseuds/AvaKelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Under the ice, I was awake."</p><p>When the words settle in his head, Clint feels dizzy with comprehension. And yeah, there it is, the ripping that slices into his ribcage, sharp and painful, as if trying to erase everything that had touched his chest before. He shudders violently.</p><p>"How are you sane," a whisper slips out unabated, voicing Clint's realization.</p><p>"I'm not really."</p><p>~~</p><p>01.05.2016 - UPDATE: Now enhanced with two extra scenes from Illusions that are key to the development of the story. Enjoy!</p><p>25.07.2015 - UPDATE: Now beta'd by the extremely patient Lily the Cat. Fixed typos (hopefully got them all). Added wonderful art by kait (details in Chapter 6). More art, pointing out of errors and meta headcanons welcome. I also wouldn't mind someone pod fic'ing this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [幽灵](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8482258) by [terachiyuu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/terachiyuu/pseuds/terachiyuu)



> Canon divergence after Avenger movie? Or something of sorts.
> 
> It's not beta'd, so there are still mistakes in there, I don't think I got them all.
> 
> I had this niggling need to find out what Steve might have turned out if he'd been, you know (read the story, dammet). It grew legs. And I need feedback, badly. Thanks & enjoy.

Long shadows streak the ceiling as the New York lit night drips on, at a gruesomely slow pace. It actually feels like it's trying to linger, to coax him out of his vigilance, lure him into the fake promise of restful sleep. He knows it won't come, that the moment he closes his eyes is going to be the moment he relinquishes his mind to the grinder. He'll end up stretched thin across the expanse of blue submission, selfless obedience guiding him to hurt and kill those that he doesn't, _can't_ , destroy. Clint shudders, consciously seeking out the harsh feeling of the cold floor beneath the thin material of his t-shirt. It helps keep him awake, but it's not enough, not when he's pushing on three weeks without a wink of sleep. So he turns his thoughts to the world around him and the people that are still alive, despite him. It grates on his raw nerves, but it also helps, reminding him that, like Natasha said, he too has red in his ledger. Only his red is flooding pages and it will take a whole new level of pain to muddle through, but he'll do it, more for the people who are not breathing anymore than for the ones who are, because apparently he's more masochistic than he's ever given himself credit. He mentally pats himself on the back for swallowing down the bile threatening to rise in his throat and forces his wandering mind back to taking stock of his team, because he feels a twisted sort of possessiveness toward them after they had insisted on looking him straight in the eye without hatred, or fear, or deities forbid, pity.

Natasha's in Kuala Lumpur, getting lost in a sea of people. She'd jumped at the opportunity of a long surveillance mission that would let her focus and scatter her mind at the same time. Clint thinks she's due her time away to regain balance. She's got Morrow, Franklin and Jones with her, three ladies that know what they're doing. Clint had read the mission parameters and intel five times before he stopped trying to overpass the security lock SHIELD had slapped on his server access to check on her.

Well. He's out of the system and on mandatory leave. They're keeping him under surveillance, which reminds him of what got him here in the first place, so he pushes himself to leave that scab be.

Thor's off to his home. With. Well. He stops again and takes a deep breath watching the shadows on the ceiling until he can imagine them moving in their stillness.

Stark's in Malibu, battling his own demons. Clint has seen his eyes, hunted by a gaping hole in the sky, the promise of death and the utter, world shuttering panic that comes after finding out you've lived through it. He snorts softly to himself. If last time he coped with kidnapping related PTSD by building himself a suit of armor, what's he going to do now? Build thirty more? Clint can almost see Stark followed around by an army of Iron Man replicas. Yeah, that's gonna end well... but he still asks JARVIS access to the Malibu mansion camera feeds twice a day to check in stealthily. For some reason, JARVIS lets him and doesn't alert Stark of his stalking.

Banner's somewhere a few floors down, tinkering around in one of Stark's labs. He brews teas that leave a trail of wetness in the air, he's there but invisible, rarely showing his face. Clint suspects he needs it to quiet the Other guy down, so he's pretty sure Banner's going to pop back up in his own time.

That leaves him and Rogers, but the Captain's even more of a recluse. Stark had offered them accommodations in his towering building, collecting them one by one. He had caught Clint while Fury was telling him in no uncertain terms that he's considered compromised until further notice. Out of SHIELD, but not out of SHILED. Clint had been too busy trying not to think of that as the equivalent of being thrown in a cell, and too tired to say no to Stark. He's never asked how he cajoled Banner and Rogers, but here they are: strangers in an impersonal building and never laying eyes on each other after Stark's fled to Malibu, leaving them to their own devices. Well, at least there's a gym, and a range, and a huge frickin' heated pool. And the coffee. And JARVIS is a good pal, for a machine. He's even convinced the AI to call him Clint. Speaking of...

"Clint," JARVIS utters in the heavy silence of his bedroom, "I can't seem to wake Captain Rogers."

"Elaborate?" he asks, his voice cracking with disuse.

"His heart rate is spiking alarmingly close to heart attack levels," the disembodied voice clips.

Clint's out of the door and running through the hallways before he even thinks of shoes. His bare feet soak up the cold of the floor beneath them and he shivers. Rogers' bedroom is on the same story, but all the way on the other side of the building, so Clint forces his sluggish body to run faster, until he skids to a stop in front of the Captain's door just as JARVIS opens it for him with a click and he pushes it aside.

"Rogers?" he calls.

There's no answer, so he creeps slowly into the room, making sure to create some noise as he advances. If it's what he thinks it is, a nightmare like the ones ripping his mind to shreds every time he closes his eyes, then he doesn't want to startle Rogers into giving him a broken rib or worse.

"Hey, man," he says from a safe distance, "time to wake up."

He takes in the shaking form on the bed, tangled in sheets and blankets, the way Rogers is breathing heavily and sobbing quietly, eyes screwed shut like they hurt.

"Come on, wake up," Clint's voice slides into a murmur, because Rogers looks like he's thrashing violently, _without moving a muscle_. It _rips_ something out of Clint's chest and his body bends itself for a moment, before the need to _do something_ overwhelms him.

He stumbles forward, all self-preservation flying out the window as he scrambles on the bed, places hands on hard shoulders.

"Steve..." comes out of his lips before he knows it, and there's the tiniest fraction of a second when Clint suddenly understands more than he ever did about the man shaking beneath him, _knows_ he'll help Steve through this whether he likes it or not, _needs_ him to make it out even if Clint never does escape his own nightmares himself.

He's been distantly aware of and ready for some lashing out, but instead Steve uncoils with surreal grace and Clint finds himself under the covers, wrapped up in muscular arms. Steve's eyes are still screwed shut, like he's terrified to blink, and he pulls Clint tightly against his bare chest.

"You're so cold," he whispers fervently, and Clint's about to crack a joke, "god, Peggy, how did you get here..."

It stops the air from coming out of Clint's lungs for a long moment, because Steve's still locked in the nightmare, and he chokes on nothing, that ripped place inside him tearing a little bit more.

"It's ok, Steve," he manages, trying to pat at his arm, but gets squeezed even tighter for his effort.

"No, no," comes back hushed, like a secret spilling out, "you shouldn't be here. Water's too cold," he shudders, his entire body tensing.

Clint is dangerously close to not being able to breathe from the pressure surrounding his torso, so he tries to shift Steve's attention. Maybe pushing him to a happier place will let him wake up before he kills Clint.

"'s not cold, promise," he says. "Look, we're in a comfy warm bed, and there's central heating and JARVIS won't let us freeze our asses--"

"Oh," Steve interrupts, "is the war over?"

"Yeah," Clint breathes with a bit of relief. Whatever place Steve's in right now, he's not totally cut off, so Clint figures the chances of getting through to him skyrocket. "Yeah, it is, we won."

"I thought I'd never see you again." Steve's grip lightens somewhat and the crease of his eyebrows eases in tiny increments until he turns a smiling face to Clint, even though his eyes are still closed.

Clint sighs and mumbles "I'm here now, relax, Steve," 'cos in for a penny, in for an armful of crazy. He shifts, trying to wiggle out of Steve's arms, his very cold foot touching skin, and that's when Clint's impulsive and reckless attempt at help goes to hide in shame.

Steve has him on his back, pinning him with his whole body, now more tense than ever before.

"Peggy," he sobs, the sound wrecked and painful as it comes out of his throat, "I know I'm dreaming, Peggy," and there are tiny droplets gathering into his lashes despite him scrunching his eyelids tightly again.

Clint's arms are somewhat free now, so he pushes them under Steve's and wraps them around, moving his hands on the skin between Steve's shoulder blades, swallowing the quiet sobs with the tips of his fingers. Steve's naked under the covers, but Clint's seen worse and has been worse himself, so it's a non-issue, seeing after a team mate in a bad place. He's at a loss for words, though, so he concentrates on Steve's heartbeat that he can feel against his own ribcage. It's still frantic, but he counts it patiently with seconds in his head, and it doesn't feel dangerously close to red anymore.

He's distracted briefly while taking stock of Steve that he doesn't notice, at first, how he shifts against Clint. It's almost imperceptible, but the hardness against his hip as it lays nestled between Steve's legs is unmistakable.

"Hey, now," he starts just as Steve breathes "I miss you so much" in his ear.

"Shit," he hears himself say, as his mind tries to come up with a way out of this sudden predicament without scarring them both in the process.

Steve's voice breaks into half finished sentences that make less and less sense and Clint _has_ to do something fast. He's more calm than he should be at this very moment, he notices, as he considers his options. First, he's a trained agent, and even as tired as he is, he knows just where to put his knee to really cause pain and jolt Steve to awareness. But it says something that he's even _considering_ the second option, and that's how fucked up his life is that the first time the thought of putting his hand on someone else's dick is passing through his head would involve Captain frickin' America.

But he does it before he can panic himself into hysterics, because Steve's suffering something that he is barely glimpsing. There's more to it, he's sure he'll absolutely _need_ to find out what tomorrow, and he can't bare to add more violence to it right now. So he snakes his hand down and between them, wraps his fingers around heated flesh, managing awkward strokes under the solid muscle of Steve's belly.

"It's ok, I got you," he says as he brings his other hand in the short hair above Steve's nape, pulling him down to cradle his face in the crook of Clint's neck. "Let go, come on."

It's almost laughable how it only takes a couple of thrusts and Steve's going still above him, wetness seeping into his t-shirt, but it's wonderfully satisfying at the same time. Steve noses at Clint's neck contently. It worked, and there's gradual looseness sneaking into his muscles, heartbeat going down, with a huff of breath that sounds like Steve's been holding it in for too long.

"...cold here," Clint hears mumbled against his shoulder, lips pecking a kiss on the cotton, "but you're warmer every time..."

And wow. Clint really needs to have a talk with Steve tomorrow. There's something _wrong_ with what he's hearing and he's trying very hard not to assume anything. Actually, he's afraid he might be right, so he squirms his way out from under Steve. He needs to carefully sort through all of Steve's words and reactions, and if it gives him something to focus on, it's just a bonus. Somewhere Rogers became Steve and giving him an orgasm - admittedly a fucked up one - makes Clint need even more to add some aftercare to the whole mess.

"No, please, not yet" Steve whimpers, pulling Clint closer underneath.

Clint lets his arms flop on the bed with a long exhale escaping his lungs. He wants to laugh, but he's afraid it will turn hysterical and crazy, so he settles for breathing in slow gulps.

"Fine," he finally relents. At least he has less chance of falling asleep to blue shards of nothingness with a mountain of hard flesh on top of him. "I'm staying. Fuck."

He's prepared to be uncomfortable for as long as it will take Steve to come back to himself, but Steve just goes boneless against Clint, wrapping him in warmth and pliant limbs.

He feels a smile pressed against his neck and Clint blinks his tired eyelids at the ceiling.

"Crisis averted, JARVIS," he whispers before Steve's even breaths draw him under, too, despite his best efforts to keep himself awake.

~

Clint wakes up. He _wakes up_. There is no lingering dread, no shaking, no cold sweat on his skin. Instead, just a comforting warmth wrapped tightly against him on all sides, soft sheets against his back, soft blanket on top... until the blanket moves and he struggles to open his heavy eyelids while pawing at the air to get it back. It's not cooperating, though, and he finally focuses his eyes on Steve, kneeling above him, arms braced on either side of him.

Steve looks _mortified_ , staring at the dried mess on Clint t-shirt, as memories of the night come back to Clint in a slow wave. He'd do it again, Clint's instantly sure of it, and he is pleased that he finds no regret. It's not that he has finally slept, he's not sure what it is, but he doesn't intend to let Steve regret it either.

"Morning," he mumbles.

Steve's eyes snap up at him and he can already see guilt forming in those wide blue eyes. But, before he can say anything to wipe it away, the bathroom door closes behind Steve. He huffs as he melts into the mattress, but then he's startled by the angry growling of his stomach. Might as well try and see if he can hold some food down today while waiting for Steve.

He drags himself out of bed, brushes his teeth in his own bathroom and only remembers the stained t-shirt he's wearing when he's already in the kitchen they'd been using. He just pulls it off and throws it on the back of a chair before gathering eggs from the fridge. JARVIS tells him they'd been out for almost ten hours when he asks, and while he doesn't feel exactly rested, it's just a tiny bit better than yesterday that his resolve in figuring Steve out doubles.

He should laugh at how ridiculous this whole thing is, but he can't. There's an underlying calmness that stills the chaos of his thoughts and he's clearer than he's been in a while. It feels like Steve's body has shielded him with warmth and solid safety from sharp spear edges--

Clint stops himself, braced against the counter, listening to the scrambled eggs sizzling in the pan. He focuses on chest, arms and muscles until everything _before_ fades back into muted tones, because he wants to enjoy this moment, a blessed reprieve from how his days usually unfold.

He fixes two plates for the table, brings steaming coffee mugs as well, and almost burns his tongue on the first sip. He's chewing slowly, wishing with all he's got that it stays down. Steve shuffles in when he's at his third bite. Clint waves his fork at the empty chair across him and the food waiting there, but Steve remains standing, some semblance of parade rest, hands behind his back and jaw tight.

Clint leans back to take a better look at him and Steve's eyes are puffy and red as he holds his gaze. _There's_ that determination that made him Captain America, even though it's clear that Steve would rather be anywhere else right now.

"I'm sorry," Steve says and his neck bobs as he swallows, "I had no right to vio--"

Clint slams the fork on his plate, effectively drowning the rest of the word, making Steve jump in the process. He'd be more than a little bit angry at the assumption, but he's aware that Steve doesn't really know what happened, he just woke up with evidence that laid out a story that would be hard not to misunderstand. It pisses him off, though, that Steve's beating himself over it, and he doesn't bother hiding it. Steve might have unknowingly opened himself up to Clint during the night, but Clint is inclined to open himself freely in return.

"Don't insult me," he grumbles, "sit the fuck down and eat the food I made for you." He picks up his fork and points it again at the other plate on the table.

It's a little gratifying to see Captain America scramble like a kid, but Clint can see the guilt there doubling. Steve looks like he's about to cry while he picks up his own mug and a little bit of coffee slushes out onto the table.

Clint sighs.

"I'm a trained assassin," he says. Steve flinches, and Clint suppresses another sigh. "What I mean is that you didn't force me to do _anything,_ " he adds slowly, making sure every word comes out clearly, "I _chose_ to help you, consciously and without coercion. Steve..." his voice breaks with all the questions he wants to ask but can't possibly shape as Steve's eyes grow wider and his mouth slacks open with Clint's every word.

Steve's hands move up to cover his mouth and nose, eyes impossibly open, and Clint sees the exact moment when realization dawns in, when he remembers whatever he'd been dreaming. He stays still for stretched minutes, but Clint's patient and waits him out.

"Eat up," he says after a while, just as Steve shakes himself out of it.

"What-- How--" comes back stilted, and Clint can't help quirking an eyebrow and half a smirk at Steve. "Why would you thi--"

"Eat and I'll tell you," he interrupts.

Steve frowns at him, frowns at the plate, frowns at Clint again, but he relents. He insists on cleaning the dishes afterwards and Clint grabs a quick shower and more clothes. It's a beautiful afternoon, the sun looks warm and it's too good to rot indoors. He hasn't stepped foot outside in too long. Besides, he thinks Steve will appreciate it. He had expected a reaction, but not the one he's gotten from Steve, and it's rattled him up. It could be that Clint's a man, but he doubts it's just that. Steve had looked almost like Clint had felt when he'd lost his virginity in the back of...

"Aw, Steve, no."

He bangs his head on the nearest wall. He's not that stupid to assume anything, though, so he's going to have to _ask_.

"Ugh. What the hell," he says to himself out loud.

"I'm sure you'll do a fine job, Clint," JARVIS utters from somewhere above, like a looming mountain of sentience.

"Please tell me Captain America didn't come into this century a virgin," he mutters, unfazed, because JARVIS has stopped shocking him with his seemingly telepathic and to the point non-sequiturs.

"Unfortunately," the AI begins and Clint dreads the rest of it before he even hears it, "Mr. Stark's private notes on Captain Rogers indicate otherwise."

"What would Tony know?" he frowns.

"Mr. Howard Stark," JARVIS corrects, "sir's father."

"Right," he grabs two caps from a drawer and hurries out. There's no way to explain what happened as not actual sex. Two people together share that intimacy and whatever others lie to themselves with, it's never been Clint's thing. He's going to find a way to explain though, and won't _that_ be fun.

Steve's putting the last mug away when Clint enters the kitchen and he waits for Steve to wipe his hands before throwing him one of the caps.

"We're going out," he says.

Steve bunches the cap between his fingers. "You promised to tell me--"

"I will," Clint reassures him, "but afterwards we're going outside, and please, fucking please with cherry on top, come with me."

Steve looks at him for a moment, jaw clenching and unclenching, before he nods. "Ok."

Clint steels himself, takes a deep breath and "It was my hand," he holds it up, wiggling his fingers. "I stroked you," he adds, watching as Steve's lips press themselves in a tight line, "and that was it. Less than a minute."

Steve opens his mouth and closes it a few times, makes some aborted movements with his hands and finally settles on "You."

"Steve," Clint huffs, "you were not really there, and I know my own nightmares are bad, but--"

Oops, he hadn't meant to let that one slip out, but judging by the way Steve's face scrunches, he's clicking some things into place. Dammit. He's going to be like a dog with a bone, Clint can see it.

"Let's go," he says before the other can react further, and moves toward the elevators.


	2. Chapter 2

They take the side streets - away from battle damage - and end up on a sun warmed bench, tree leaves shuffling in the light breeze above their heads, watching people sparsely scattered on the park alleys visible from their perch. The crowd's not big, but it's not empty space either, fragments of sounds carried on to them, but still quiet enough that they can whisper and hear each other without interruptions.

Clint's half sprawled on his side of the bench, arms resting at the elbows on the backrest, fingers loose in the air around him. Steve's sitting more stiffly beside him, but there's only a little bit of tension in his shoulders. They have their caps drawn tight down and nobody's recognized either of them, so Clint counts that as another good point of this surprising day.

He can feel Steve stealing glances at him, as if he's readying himself to say something. Clint hopes it's not something really stupid, but he can't take the chance, so he decides to jump in front of it.

"Look," he says, "you don't have to count this as your first time, so stop fretting over it."

Steve turns his entire body toward him. "It wasn't my first time," he scowls.

"Oh, thank fuck," Clint breathes, relief palpable, and startles a laugh out of Steve. Clint looks at him and can't help returning it with a smile of his own.

They turn back to watching people moving about, silence less loaded between them. Clint's reassessing Steve's reactions, but something still doesn't make sense. His curiosity gets the better of him, even though the more important issue of _cold water_ should take precedence. But he's feeling content for a change and he isn't really in a hurry to poke at Steve's raw sides out in the open where he can run away from Clint and rob him of this temporary peace.

"So, then... why the freak out?" he asks.

"Freak out," Steve repeats, as if he doesn't understand the words.

"Crying like a baby in the shower," Clint clarifies, because he won't ever stop being an idiot, but Steve just groans and rubs at his face.

"You," he starts after a beat, "are an asshole."

"Been told so," Clint nods, adding a poke to Steve's shoulder. "But if a little hand to dick between friends doesn't let us tease each other, I don't know what would."

Steve seems to warm at that and relaxes further against the back rest. "When I woke up, you looked so blissful," he says, "like you've had a very good night, and I couldn't remember any of it, so I guess a few bad thoughts crossed my mind."

"Sure of ourselves, aren't we," Clint jibes, amused, which makes Steve roll his eyes.

"I'm unforgettable," comes back with a smugness behind the words that Clint's sure he's never heard from the good Cap before, "but you're missing the point."

"No, no, I don't think so, tell me more."

Steve shakes his head. Clint should stop this, his mouth is running off without him, because he's not supposed to play at flirting with national icons that were the heroes of Cou-- people. He feels his breath hitching in his throat and he glances sideways at Steve, but the man seems far away for a moment, unaware. Clint draws himself back together, the fragile thread that's keeping him from falling apart even thinner.

"Under the ice, I was awake."

When the words settle in his head, Clint feels dizzy with comprehension. And yeah, there it is, the ripping that slices into his ribcage, sharp and painful, as if trying to erase everything that had touched his chest before. He shudders violently.

"How are you sane," a whisper slips out unabated, voicing Clint's realization.

"I'm not really," Steve answers anyway, "most times I think I'm still dreaming. I used to imagine the future, you know, to fill the hours, but there were always flying cars. I still have to remind myself I'm awake and I keep looking at the things beyond what I could've imagined." He fishes the phone Stark gave him out of his pocket and wiggles it in demonstration.

Clint finds his hand clutching at Steve's shoulder and counts it as a win when it's not shrugged off. Still, the monumentality of what Steve's just confessed throws him askew and all his questions die before even forming themselves in his head.

"It was dark," Steve adds and stop there, because it's enough. It draws a clear picture how it must have felt to be stuck motionless in the cold for _years_ with only himself as company _._

Clint doesn't push for more. He desperately wants the easy banter back and he scrambles his brain to find something to break the stillness between them.

"How unforgettable?" he manages, but it's awkward.

Steve takes the cue, smart little firecracker, and bumps Clint's knee with his own.

"Come back to my bed so I can do you proper," he says lightly, so unlike a man who's just admitted to spending the better part of a century in his own private hell.

Clint freezes, without a retort. Going back to that bed and the mass of flesh that's stood between him and his monsters feels like something he shouldn't hope for, but he knows he wants it, so he'd be there in a heartbeat, every night. He'd hold Steve through his nightmares without a second thought, no ounce of hesitation. But he's never entertained the idea of actually having sex with a man before, and agreeing to that just because of his own issues leads nowhere remotely good. It'd be too cheap to bear, too tainted.

"What, no dinner first?" he croaks, voice unsteady, his eyes fixed on the tips of his boots, "I think I'm worth at least some flowers."

And Steve's off the bench like a bullet. Great job, Barton. Clint lowers his head more, view obstructed by the visor of his cap, and he doesn't dare move further before trying to collect himself. He wants to run, but he doesn't trust his legs right now. The lack of Steve next to him just brings forth the realization of how _safe_ he's been feeling all day in his presence. He forces himself to breathe slow and deep, trying to figure out how to pull out from this mess he's thrown himself into.

Feet stop next to his boots and he only has half a second to recognize Steve's shoes before a mass of green, pink, and white lands in his lap. It's a lily stem, with several big open flowers on it, petals curling from white into dark pink, a clear plastic wrapping around it and the added fern leaves. It's simple as a bouquet goes, uncomplicated, and he raises his head in surprise to find Steve grinning at him with mischief.

It's a good look on him. Clint's fingers make the wrapper crinkle as they close around the flower. Steve must see something on his face, because his expression sobers slowly. He sits back down on the bench, but faces him and Clint knows what's coming.

"When was the last time you slept?" The question is gentle.

"Last night." Clint pretends not to understand, but he is only delaying the inevitable.

"And before that?"

He doesn't want to, but he's going to answer because Steve trusted him with his secret, and ohboy, is that a mind blowing realization to have, that someone's actually _trusted him_. He takes a deep breath.

"I crashed after the fight and woke up screaming. Couldn't, after."

He can barely hear himself speak, but he sees Steve nod at him out of the corner of his eye. It's filled with understanding and not dreaded pity, so Clint makes himself look him in the face, steeling himself for the next question, but Steve doesn't ask anything else. He just relaxes into the bench, making the air around them gradually shift back into pleasant companionship. Clint is grateful and lets the flower in his hand pull his attention away from things better left for privacy. He's not going to let go of Steve's reveals and he's pretty sure Steve's not going to let go of Clint's. But it appears mutual that neither of them wants to dive deeper into that right now.

"You seem way too calm about this man in your bed thing," Clint says after a while.

Steve shrugs. "I learned the hard way how the person's important, not their shape and form."

It makes Clint warm through the place that's ripped in his chest.

 _Shit_.

"Is this a real invitation," he blurts before he can stop himself, raising the flower from where it rests against his thigh.

"If you want it to be," Steve answers slowly, "but it doesn't have to. I slept better than I had in months last night and I don't think I'm mistaken to assume you have as well? We can just share the bed and nothing more."

"Y--" Clint has to clear his throat before trying again, "Yeah."

Steve smiles, small and tentative.

"I think Stark put a lumpy old mattress in my room," Clint adds with a grumble, aiming for a joke, and Steve's smile widens just a little bit. "I never had sex with a guy," he adds that too, for good measure, because he can't decide what he wants, not right now. So he leaves it open at both ends. Steve acquiesces by bumping Clint's boot with the tip of his shoe.

"Not as scary as it sounds," he says instead of an answer.

"Aren't you full of surprises," Clint shakes his head in disbelief before he remembers, "did you really think - how did you try to put it - that you _violated_ me?"

Steve scoffs, half horrified. "No, asshole, I was trying to apologize for violating _your trust_."

Clint wants to hide as his cheeks heat, and he's a grown ass man. Grown ass spy. Jesus, the things that Steve stirs in him.

 _Shit_.

"Sorry," he mumbles. "You're just so damn... proper," he waves in circular motion to encompass all that is Steve, like that's enough of an explanation.

He gets a Steve version of a gleeful grin. "Peggy taught me a lot of spy things," he laughs, but Clint's mood drops below the asphalt. Steve notices, the sneaky bastard. "I dreamed of her last night, didn't I?" he asks knowingly and Clint can't stop himself from nodding. "It's just a ghost of many, Clint," he adds softly.

Those few words tell the whole story of seventy years. They're simple, like the lily, but filled with everything that Steve didn't have, can't have, things that never were and never will be.

"I know ghosts," he says.

Steve fixes a look on him, long and steady, and Clint feels stripped bare. He allows it, doesn't flinch. Finally, Steve taps a finger on Clint's hand holding onto the crinkly wrapper like a lifeline. "I'd like to try."

He doesn't expect an answer, and rises to his feet, hauling Clint up with him.

"Come on, I'm starving."

Clint's never gotten flowers before, either.

~

They decide on ordering chinese as they make their way back, but don't call right away. Steve disappears into a gym corner and Clint jumps in the pool, moving in long heavy strokes that make his muscles ache pleasantly, while he takes the time to dissect the day carefully. He doesn't want to, not really, but he has to, because Steve fucking Rogers chewed him up and spat him out and he doesn't really know what to do with himself right now.

There is an image of the man behind Captain America in everyone's minds, and Clint has read the files just like the rest of them at SHIELD. Brave, smart, inventive, they had said about the scrawny kid, and had painted him onto a pretty high moral pedestal. Later on, media and comics had just added to the legend. It is more than that, though, the way he talks, how he holds himself, like he's already prepared to take a stand, like he embodies innocence... and then he goes and propositions Clint as if Clint - efficient assassin, and those words have never been more loaded - deserves it somehow, Steve's attention.

What Steve is and what the Captain stands for are two separate things, Clint can see them now. The lines blur in there somewhere because the legend had to have some roots in the person, but it's painfully evident that Clint's been wrong about a lot of things.

He feels cracked open and raw.

He can't believe himself. First, assuming virginities, then assuming Steve's thoughts on the matter, then-- he doesn't even know anymore. His face heats like it hasn't since he was a teenager and he tries to shake the embarrassment away. He can be an adult.

Speaking of adults, he has shamelessly seduced women and let himself be seduced by them his entire life. He's never been shy about sex, and he's flaunted his body with cockiness. Never had he expected, though, for the most proper guy in the world to shake him into metaphorical goo. He feels a shiver run through him as the image of flowers flashes behind his eyelids and he stops in the middle of the pool. He's avoided it so far, but he should get it over with. He takes a deep breath and pushes down into the water, focusing his mind on Steve and Steve alone.

He spreads his thoughts over Steve's body, follows the lines of his muscles, from his collarbones to his wrists, moving back up to wide shoulders, then down again on his chest. Nobody can see him underwater, so he forces himself to linger, to remember every expanse of skin he's seen, every twitch of tendons and flesh. Steve looks like perfection, Clint can admit beauty freely, but thinking of it in every detail doesn't make him hard like women's bodies have done before. So it's not that. He shoots up, breathes in, and goes back down.

He needs to know, through, so he goes back to it, envisioning strong legs, thick thighs and finally resting his mind on Steve's cock. He asks himself if he'd be capable of touching, putting his mouth there, doing what's normally done in such situations. He can't afford not to be truthful with himself, but he honestly can't say yes or no. It's _Steve_ , and because it _is_ him, he might. He might let Steve do other things to him, and he'd do it even if he'd never get hard from it.

Clint pushes up and breaks the surface for air. He draws long gasps, utterly terrified of where his brain has brought him. He's startled, but he doesn't doubt he'd allow it. Going deep into himself like that has always uncovered uncomfortable truths, but Clint's used to his psyche playing rollercoaster with him, so he accepts it without complaint. It adds to the surprise, though, that putting it in this new perspective doesn't make it cheap. It's _sharing_ instead of trading his body for peace of mind.

A soft rustle makes him turn around and he finds Steve there sitting on a pool chair, legs wide open on either side, elbows on knees. He looks at Clint as he unwraps gauze from his hands, slow, steady motions, and there's such an intensity in his gaze that it makes Clint's breath freeze in his throat.

"Water's heated," he says numbly.

Steve's face softens without losing the edge in his eyes. "I know," he says. "Come up here."

Clint complies, and moves to stand a foot away from Steve. Even if he's going to accepts things that might come to him, he can't actively pursue them. He's not there yet. So he waits.

"I asked JARVIS to send after the meal," Steve says quietly. "Come to my room to eat?"

Clint nods and that makes Steve show his teeth as a wide smile parts his lips. Clint's dick finally twitches. _Aw_ , he thinks desperately, _no_.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't even know where this story's going. (._.)

They sit on Steve's enormous bed - 'cos Stark, what can you do - with take-out cartons on a tray between them. Clint pokes at rice and dares a bite here and there. He hasn't thrown up yet today, and he doesn't want to risk it, he needs the nourishment as much as he needs the sleep. Tom & Jerry run in the background, pulling short laughters from Steve at intervals, but Clint's just listening, staring into cooked grains of rice, so it takes him a while to realize the volume's turned lower and Steve's watching him with more interest than Clint wants at the moment.

"You're also not eating?" Steve asks, words tilted with disbelief. "I thought I was the one twisted in the head," he adds with a circular motion of his index finger near his temple.

Clint snorts and places the container back on the tray. "Don't worry about me, ok?"

"Why not?"

"I killed a lot of people," he shrugs, then makes a point of looking Steve in the eyes. Better get it over with.

"Uh-huh," comes back slowly, "I did, too. War, remember?"

"I got paid to shoot people in the head," he counters. It's starting to feel like a competition, see who's cracked worst. Clint's the bad guy here, he's murdered colleagues, while Steve has just been by his lonesome for a really long time. It's overly simplified to ridiculousness, but Clint can't do complicated right now. Steve just needs to understand Clint's beyond helping, and to focus on getting better himself.

"You think I didn't?" Steve moves his hands up and down, showing his enhanced body and Clint will give him that.

Well. One thing left then.

"Some of them were innocent," he says slowly, and can't hold Steve's gaze anymore, so he looks away.

"So, what, you're not worth it? You also saved a lot of people," Clint can see Steve gesturing with a hand in a wide arc.

"It doesn't balance out," he counters, and Steve lets out a frustrated noise. How did Clint get into this conversation in the first place? He doesn't know anymore. Oh wait, his _stupid_ mouth, that's how. "Just forget about it, Rogers."

Steve rubs his face and then runs his fingers through his hair back and forth a few times, leaving a mess of strands behind. He moves the tray to the floor before turning and shifting to sit with his back against the headboard with an impatient huff.

"Clint," he says and Clint twists his cross-legged position to face him. There's a sort of hardness in his eyes that hasn't been there before. "I was never," he starts, then reconsiders. "In my early days with the Commandos, we were in a village somewhere in France. Very few people were left there and all starving. I gave my ration to a dirty little boy," he swallows and Clint follows the motion with his eyes. "Found him later that day trying to get the food back from an older boy. He was bigger and pushing the little one around. I just... punched him."

Steve stops and opens his hands in front of him with finality.

"His neck snapped. Clean break. Dead in moments."

"You're serious," Clint breathes.

"Yes." Steve's voice sounds cold, detached. "He was innocent, and he wasn't the only one that died because of me. Others got in the line of fire and it was unavoidable. For a while I was bad, but Howard helped me out. He even made up a fake journal recounting the heroic deeds of one Captain America," he adds with a small grin, "funniest thing I ever read."

Clint chokes a little and covers it with a cough. "I think they wrote the history books after it."

"That would explain so much," Steve frowns.

"But you didn't kill them in cold blood," Clint really must have the last word in this. He never learns, does he?

There's a catastrophic level of darkness in Steve's eyes that roots Clint to the spot, suspending him outside reality and pulling the threads from around his tattered being.

"We are Avengers," Steve drawls, "that means someone's destroying what we care for, irreversibly, and then we go after them to do worse."

Steve shifts to his knees, and winds his muscles until his mouth is less than an inch away from Clint's ear.

"This Hydra colonel, he killed a stray dog we've been feeding for months," he breathes, hot and wet, "and I took his head off. No tribunal, no justice. I threw the shield and it cut right through his neck, stuck in the wall behind. Head was still staring open eyes at me, on top of it."

Clint breathes, drawing air in tandem with his heart, pounding, pounding, _pounding_ in his chest, not too slow, not too fast, but so fucking hard, it _hurts_. He can't think, as images of Steve's words flash before his eyes. He can see it, feel it as if he'd been there. He can understand why Steve's telling him all this, and maybe he should doubt its verity, but he doesn't. This confession is just as simple as the other one, as the flower, as the inevitable truth that Clint now gets. Steve's just as human as he is, and if Clint wants Steve to take all that he gives, then Clint's gotta do the same in return. Not only bits, but the whole of it.

He's never done that before and it's a big step. Steve doesn't move, just waits exactly where he is, his slow breaths puffing over Clint's ear. But Clint has already decided, he realizes, and now he can't understand why he's been putting up a fight.

"I dream of Loki," he rests his forehead on Steve's shoulder, "and the spear," a warm hand comes up his back and latches onto his neck, "and sometimes it goes through my heart instead of Coulson's."

Steve pushes him gently on his back and lays his head on Clint's chest. He curls up his body from his upside down stretch across the bed until his knees reach the top of Clint's head.

"I dream of dreams," he whispers, "of my eyes freezing open, of darkness, of silence."

It's the worst kind of prison, where Steve has been, for decades, and the only thing Clint can do right now is just be here. His fingers find their way into Steve's hair of their own accord, but he leaves them there, to caress, to soothe. It's working, because soon Steve takes Clint's other hand and hugs it against his own chest. They're intertwined in their pain. Clint receives Steve's, like Steve receives Clint's, suddenly not so cold anymore. Wetness spills from Clint's eyes unabated, but Steve just smiles, a joke at the ready, comfort freely given. Clint stays, wrapped up in it.

~

In the morning, it's all Clint can do to fold himself around Steve in an embrace and a thank you. But Steve's kindness doesn't stop there. They're having toast with black coffee for breakfast, the little he manages to swallow thankfully staying down for a change.

"You need more sleep," Steve tells him.

Aw. Sleep. Clint wishes he'd be able to get more, not just nightmare riddled unconsciousness, but actual rest. "Yeah," he agrees.

The smile Steve turns at him is still kind, and Clint huffs, rubs at his temples, before covering his face. Steve will understand.

"When you said you--" he looks up then, words escaping him, "when you had this problem, what did you dream, I mean... ugh." Clint is not the most eloquent person in the world on a normal day, now even less and he pokes at his toast with a finger, willing for his thoughts to settle.

"There was an unfortunate hit I did once," Steve answers anyway and Clint is grateful, "when the shield took a soldier's face off. Well, it scraped skin and flesh from his chest all the way to his scalp."

Clint stills with the image while Steve sips from his mug.

"I started dreaming of everyone I've ever hurt," Steve continues through the horror the memory must bring, "and I'd see their faces melt until only bone and blood was left. I'd have this knife and I'd start cutting off slices of them, like you do stake, you know."

What he's hearing is gradually unwinding behind Clint's closed eyelids and he draws air carefully. Oh, so slowly, because Steve gets it.

"I'm sorry," comes next in a whisper and Clint looks at him.

Clint hurts for him, aches with the pain radiating in Steve's eyes, and he reaches over to take one of Steve's hands between his. He needs to put himself out here, just like Steve did, so he rests his forehead against Steve's palm with a shudder.

"He pulled me out of myself," Clint manages, all this anguish spilling from his eyes again, "robbed me of my will. Whatever anyone's done to me, they never-- I could _fight_ , decide for my own to give in or not," he cries against the hot skin there, while a caress moves through his hair. "They broke everything I had, but not _me_. Not inside, and now-- "

The air pushes out of Clint's chest in a lump that hurts as he chokes on the words.

"You survived him," Steve says, but he's wrong.

This is not surviving, this is dying, slowly and surely.

Clint shakes his head, but the fingers in his hair suddenly pull his head up.

"You. Survived. And you're stronger for it." Steve's face is set with so much determination, Clint wants to believe him.

"Are you sure?" he breathes.

"Yes."

It's so definitive, so true, that it settles into Clint, this knowledge. That he can somehow survive this.

That he's done it already.

It makes him think that perhaps he could try touching his bow again, be a weapon again, not for others to use, but his own. So he steers both of them toward the range and into the armory on the other side, where they keep all of their weapons.

"Can't stand to use it," Clint says after he opens the case of the bow on one of the tables.

"Because you killed SHIELD agents with it," Steve adds and Clint nods.

Maybe he was too rash. He can't. Looking at it, knowing the lives it took, the damage it did... it turns Clint's stomach, and he grips the edge of the table in an attempt to keep the food down.

"Let me ask you something," Steve's voice drifts to him through the rushing sound in his ears, "is this _your_ bow or is it Loki's? "

"Used to be mine," Clint returns with a head shake. Now, he doesn't know anymore.

"Then take it back."

Like _that_ 's easy. Like Clint hasn't tried. His only relief, archery, and he can't even...

"When was the last time you touched it?" Steve pulls his attention away from the vortex in his head.

"After the fight," Clint forces himself to answer. "Cleaned it. Packed it."

He misses his bow so much, it hurts around his ribs.

"Clint," Steve says, hard and unyielding, drawing Clint back into reality with a gentleness opposite to the sharpness of his tone, "I'm going to take your hand and put it on the bow."

Oh, if only. Please. Please.

There's only the metal beneath his fingers, the entire focus of his vision, everything else faded and inconsequential. Clint doesn't understand how it doesn't burn through his flesh, under the tight grasp of Steve's hand over his, making Clint hold it. This _thing_ that murders innocents.

"It would be my fault," comes next, so close and so soft. "If you ever kill someone with the bow, it will be my fault, for making you take it."

_What._

No, Steve can't... can't shoulder that blame. Not for Clint, he is nothing.

But Steve's face is as earnest as ever, eyes bright.

"I'll make a bet with you," pushes through in between the wisps of thoughts that are chasing themselves through Clint's mind.

"What bet." He lets himself be cradled by the sound of Steve's voice.

"I bet you I can hit your flying arrow with my shield."

Clint snorts. "Dream on, loverboy."

"That's why we call it a bet," Steve grins at him as he retrieves his shield out of a locker.

But Clint feels like he's real, like he's here, and when did he grab his bow with both hands? Yet, he's holding onto it, finally, and it feels like a torn piece of himself is mending under Steve's amusement.

"So what do we bet on?" Clint asks when he finds his voice again.

"A kiss!"

"Hah, that's what _you_ 'd like to win, but what about me?"

Steve mocks a wounded heart, palm on his chest. "How about if you win, I'll do everything you tell me for the rest of the day?"

"Like wash my socks anything?" Clint could use some clean socks.

"Sure," Steve shrugs.

Clint grins. "You're on."

They shake on it, then Clint gears up. He'd be lying if he'd say holding the bow is the same as _using_ it, but one arrow for this bet doesn't seem impossible. Clint can do it, yeah. But then again, he should've known Steve's stubborn when he comes over carrying the rest of the quiver. Well, he does set his hopes high, but Clint knows better.

"Ready when you are," Clint says.

This is less monumental than it should feel. The stance, the headset, the deep breath precursors of the shot, they all bring Clint into that familiar sensation that warms him right inside his bones.

"Go," Steve says and Clint shoots.

The shield follows shortly after, bounces off a wall before breaking the arrow in half, midair.

Well, color Clint impressed. "Wow," he breathes.

Steve's grin is incredible. Clint could get used to that.

"I win!"

Yeah, he wins. A kiss. Oh.

But when Clint doesn't think Steve can awe him even more, he does it again, because he doesn't push for a kiss, just pecks the back of Clint's hand.

Clint's so fucked. If Steve would ask anything of him right now, _anything_ , Clint's not sure he would refuse.

Steve hands him an arrow and Clint takes it automatically.

"Hit the shield," comes next before it flies through the air, and Clint can do this.

Knows how to do this.

It's Steve's turn to look impressed after Clint hits the shield four times before it travels back.

"Again?" Steve asks.

"Bring it, grandpa," Clint returns with a grin.

This is amazingly relaxing, as they develop a rhythm of throw and release.

"I had grandchildren once," Steve says after a while.

Clint hums questioningly as he sends another arrow toward the targets in the back.

"I dreamed, under, that I married Peggy, and we had kids, and then they had kids. We we old and wrinkly and happy."

When the meaning of the words dawns on him, Clint stutters in his movements. He looks at Steve then, under the weight of all that he must have lost, but Steve shrugs.

"Don't feel sorry for me."

"I won't," Clint promises.

He also promises himself, to help mend Steve just like Steve's mending him. Whatever it takes.

~

The next day, early morning, Fury's calling on a video line and JARVIS displays it on a screen in a conference room a few floors below.

"Do you want to tell me," he begins, voice hard and already worked up, "why did I have to kill not one, but eight," he holds up four fingers of each hand up to the camera, "news stories about Captain America giving Hawkeye goddamn flowers in a motherfucking park?"

"What can I say, my blow jobs are flower worthy," Clint can't help himself. Fuck Fury and his misplaced indignation, it's none of his business.

Steve speaks at that, his chin raised, face earnest and innocent, hands behind him in that parade rest he likes.

"He _does_ do amazing blow jobs, sir," he confirms with a nod.

Fury's vein just below his good eye is about to pop, pulsing with blood and he stops in his tracks on the other side of the call.

"Motherf-- Barton, why did you have. To. Break. Rogers."

The call disconnects and Clint has a quiet moment before Steve turns to him with "what's a blow job?" and he loses it right there, laughs bent at the middle, breaths hiccuping in his throat.

"Dick... mouth... suck..." he wheezes out between laughs and Steve joins him when he understands.

"You've never done one, have you?" Steve asks when Clint wipes at the corner of his eyes.

"Expression's to _give_ a blow job," he corrects - and Steve says ok -, lingering chuckles still passing through his lips. "And no, but thank you for the vote of confidence," he grins and moves out of the room.

Steve follows. "Want me to teach you?"

~

They fall into a routine. Always sleep in the same bed, even if it's just for a few hours, exercise, eat, talk, watch cartoons, not necessarily in the same order and not all in one day. Clint shows Steve his stalking techniques and Steve picks them up with a little too much enthusiasm. Banner does naked yoga one day and yep, they don't really need to see that again, so they tone it down after a while.

Clint learns that he can actually jab Steve awake, the sharper the better. He never imagines physical pain in his dream states, and it's something incongruent to his years under ice, so it pulls him back to the present. Clint's reticent, always tries everything else first, and it usually works to just talk him awake. It's worse for Clint, and he doesn't know what pointers to give Steve. But somehow, the way his arms wrap around Clint and hold on tight is more than enough to quiet the chaos in his head. It works for both of them.

They share their secrets, spend hours with stories, both happy and sad, memories of people gone, hopes and fears for the ones still alive. Clint goes with Steve to visit an Alzheimer riddled and wrinkly Peggy, and he watches from the doorway. Steve tells him afterwards that he's had more than one Peggy Carter in his suspended years, and he recounts their various personalities as if they'd all been real. Clint tells him he sounds like a time traveler and Steve supposes it's kinda true, with a laugh.

There are two of Steve, actually, and Clint's dubbed them Proper-Steve and Human-Steve. The first one is almost shy, genuine, earnest to a fault, with a very straight moral spine. Clint sees him whenever he's interacting with anyone else, and he feels privileged to have the other all for himself. Human-Steve is the real deal here, he's the one that plays pranks on Clint, flirts with a boldness that makes Clint do double takes, cries in the shower when the new century is too much for him and keeps Clint safe at night.

He doesn't push, though. His touches don't pass that line between friendship and sex. He holds Clint to his chest in bed, but doesn't make a move for more. He flirts, but it's playful and not obligating. He's basically waiting, and Clint wishes he could make his mind up faster, but he's content with his days for the first time since the invasion, so he doesn't hurry.

~

The night sky is bright with the lit cityscape surrounding them as Clint drops down on Steve's side, where he's sitting on the terrace of the tower's penthouse, elbows on bent knees.

"Hey," Clint offers.

Steve is silent for a beat, then "Don't mind him," he says, extending his hand Clint's way, fingers tucked against his palm save for his index and middle ones. It looks like he's holding something, offering it to Clint.

"Mind who?" Clint asks, looking between Steve's face and his hand.

And Steve slowly tears his gaze away from Clint to have it settle on whatever he thinks he's holding.

Clint counts three seconds before Steve's fingers start trembling.

"Jesus," he breathes.

It breaks out into full shakes, the way Steve stares at his empty hand, and it dawns on Clint. He's _imagining_ something. Like he did in the ice. 

Perhaps a cigarette. It looks like one, might have been a common pass time to share it around during the war. 

"Wait here," Clint says, squeezing Steve's shoulder. 

He's got this. And yes, he finds a pack in a cupboard of the kitchen, just where he's seen them before, unopened. For what reason it's there, is beyond Clint, but he's grateful it is, now that they need it. He grabs a lighter as well, on his way back out.

"Here," Clint offers after he sits down and lights one of the cigarettes. 

He takes hold of Steve's wrist, then pushes it slowly between Steve's fingers, where he figures the imagined one sits. But when Steve doesn't move, eyes still unfocused, Clint brings his hand up, drags from the cigarette himself. 

"Who's here with us?" he asks with the exhale, the blue tendrils of smoke drifting around them with the breeze.

"Bucky." Steve's voice is barely audible, breaking with the sound, but Clint makes it out.

A hallucination. The illusion of a long lost friend.

He will share this with Steve, will shoulder his hurt.

"So it's time for embarrassing childhood stories?" he asks with a grin, poking Steve's side with an elbow.

A beat, and Steve finally smiles, wobbly and small, but there. "He can't wait to tell you," he says.

Clint leans closer. That's how they spend the night, talking to a ghost. Clint feels that he knows Steve better after this. 

In the morning, after they crawl under the covers, wrapped around each other, Clint watches Steve's eyelids fall closed. It should be disconcerting, to grasp the extent of Steve's shattered psyche. Instead, it just roots Clint in this thing they have.

He belongs here, with Steve's ghosts, with his lost children and loves, with his illusions.


	4. Chapter 4

It's a little over two weeks since that accidental hand job, and SHIELD calls upon the Avengers. Natasha's team has missed two scheduled check-ins.

"We're stretched a bit thin," Hill says during the debrief, "and we can't get feet on the ground fast enough. You know her moves," she nods at Clint, "so it's best you go get them home."

"Yeah," Clint agrees. Hill's one of the few who've never blamed him, not even the tiniest bit.

Stark's ignoring everyone still, Thor's not back, and it leaves just him, Steve, and Banner at the debrief. Hill points at the folders on the table and grabs a remote, flicking it at the screen behind her. Clint knows Natasha's mission, but he listens in anyway, for any change and new detail.

"This is Jonathan Carson," a picture of a middle aged man in a suit rivaling Stark's pops up, "weapons dealer. He likes pretty things," cars, mansions, and lovely women show up on the screen, cut outs from magazines and surveillance shots, "so he recently got himself involved in the diamond trade and into business with this woman," the face of a gentle gray-haired matriarch settles in next to Carson's, "Evelyn Lancas, but don't let her granny face fool you, boys, she's as bad as they come. Lancas provides cheap human labor for underground circles in East Asia, and as far as we can tell, she's the second leader of a diamond trafficking group working out of South Africa."

"Quite the resume," Banner remarks.

"Yes," Hill's face is set. "We wanted to take down her human traffic ring, so our entry was Carson. Surveillance mission was on him, rumors were that he was meeting Lancas in Kuala Lumpur sometime in May. Since Carson's usually staying there from April to June every year, we had to play the long game. Wait for the meet, slip a bug on Lancas and we're game from there."

"What went wrong?" Steve asks.

"We don't know," Hill answers and flinches when Clint throws her a look, "updates were normal until 18 hours ago when they missed their first check-in."

"We can read the rest en-route," Clint stands up, "when do we leave?"

Hill holds a hand up. "As soon as possible, but one more thing first," she moves between Clint and the door like that will keep him there, "you're going in without backup and under civilian cover."

Clint sighs and sits back down. "Lay it out, then."

"As I said, Carson likes pretty things, and his usual security is pretty much crap. He is reckless and keeps a night life that would have rivaled Tony Stark's from a couple of years ago. But while in K.L. he shuts himself in his estate there," she flicks the remote, and an aerial photo of a large mansion appears, "and almost vanishes, except that he orders girls from a high end brothel for the duration. Agent Romanov and her team had covers in place with the brothel. They were tasked with monitoring the comings and goings of the estate and to try planting various bugs on the property. Based on their intel, 40 hours ago we intercepted this man," another click and a man in a white hat with a ruffled cream suit appeared, "Augusto Dutra, Portuguese electronic engineer. According to him, Carson needs someone to check the warheads he recently acquired, apparently his tracking chips aren't working."

"Let me guess," Banner says, his chin tilting up, "you want me to be this guy."

"Exactly," Hill replies. "We've checked his intel, he and Carson have never met before. Captain Rogers and Agent Barton will pose as your bodyguard and assistant, your backgrounds are in the files I gave you. You'll go in, make the meet, find out what happened to our team and get them out. Last check-in we got, they were still in the mansion. Bonus if you destroy the warheads, but that's second objective. Clint," she says and leans in, palms on the table, "you've got the reins on this one. Bring my agents home."

"Yes, sir," he nods at her, makes a promise, just like always.

"Dr. Banner," Steve's voice breaks through the look Clint's sharing with Maria Hill, "can you do this?"

"This is supposed to be non-green, right?" he asks the room instead of a reply.

"Doc," Clint says, "you got us with naked yoga," grin on his face, "that takes skill." On the other side of the table Hill mouths 'naked what?' and Clint waves her off with a flick of his wrist. "We're gonna be there and we can take tranqs with us."

Banner removes his glasses and rubs at his eyes. "I owe her. And even if I didn't."

Clint nods, Hill nods back, Steve takes a deep breath.

"Captain," she rounds on Steve, "have you ever done undercover work?" and Clint can't help but jump in, a certain sense of pride pulling pleasantly at the edges of his mind.

"Are you kidding me? He dated _Peggy Carter_."

Hill rolls her eyes at herself, but barks a few more orders to milling agents, and they're sent to pack.

~

Steve walks into the room and places his backpack down just as Clint's finishing tying his bootlaces. He leans back in the armchair when Steve comes to loom over him, a frown marring his forehead. Steve bends at the waist, bracing himself with his hands on the armrests.

"Life's full of unexpected, Clint."

There's a quiet second and Clint's heart flutters in a rapid beat. He can see where this is going, and it's way too soon. He's not ready to give up the easy comfort they've fallen into.

"I want to kiss you, and I will." Steve breathes in, one long draw. "But it won't force a decision of you. I just want to kiss you once, in case we die. You decide if it repeats sometime later."

It's a request so simple, that it stills Clint, lets him think and he decides he _can_ do this. He _wants_ this kiss as well, just hadn't been able to work out how to ask one of Steve without actually committing to more. Above, Steve smiles at him like he understands.

"Yeah, ok," he breathes, and Steve's leaning in before the sounds settle.

It's a slow press of lips, dry and motionless, and Clint thinks that's that. But then one warm hand wraps itself around the back of his neck and Steve _moves_ , with purpose, reminds him of his arrows, as he finds the best places on his lips to apply pressure on, where to lick with the tip of his tongue, where to nip. Clint opens his mouth and swallows everything that Steve's offering, with a hunger he didn't know he had.

When they finally part, Steve is flushed, lips red and puffy, hot breaths escaping at erratic intervals. He looks as wrecked as Clint feels and, if a point of contact so small as their lips leaves him desperately wanting, he wonders briefly if sex with Steve won't be the thing that finally kills him.

~

They arrive at the safehouse the other team has been using with about 30 hours to spare before their meet the next evening. It's a 7PM trip to Carson's mansion, going into the lion's den without backup or lookouts. Clint doesn't like it at all, but he likes Natasha fending for herself even less, with all that she's the more capable, skilled and knowledgeable between the two of them. Clint's had his share of undercover training and ops, so he's turning on that part of himself that he needs in order to do this quickly and efficiently, and turning off everything else.

He has let Steve see, during the flight, how he shifts the bits of his mind around, re-arranging them until he has the best access to the skill sets he will need. Steve has watched, looking like he's been committing this other side of Clint to memory, and then he's asked Clint to show him how, even though Steve had been unknowingly doing it already. Steve in learning mode has sucked up Clint's attention without forcing his focus away from the mission and their surroundings, and Clint's determined he likes it enough to do it again.

He takes point as they approach the safehouse, an apartment in a building in a sea of similar buildings and it's well hidden in almost plain sight. SHIELD can pick safehouses with the best of them. Clint finds the traps and warning systems still in place, and he sidesteps them, leading his team mates in without a hitch. The place is empty, but all the equipment is there, turned off. It means the other team never had a chance to return, the safehouse has not been discovered, and there is a slightly higher probability that their covers are still intact. He doesn't consider them being less than alive at this point, _can't_.

They put down all the bags they're carrying, op clothes and extra equipment, laptops, guns and ammo, and a very gently handled case of explosives.

Clint relays his observations as Banner sits on the sofa in the common area and Steve walks the length of the open room, taking it in.

"So what now?" Banner asks, already tired.

"You," Clint points at him, "can rest, meditate, shower, calm down," and he throws a thumb over his shoulder, pointing to the bedrooms.

"All right," he says, sounding relieved. "What about you?"

"I'm going to scope the mansion, get a feel of it, see if I can find anything."

"Coming with you," Steve quips, but Clint puts a hand in the air between him and the door.

"Wait a second," he says and waves when Steve frowns at him with building determination. "Doc," he continues, keeping his eyes on Steve, "you want Cap to stay with you?"

And oh, Clint sees realization dawn on Steve.

Banner considers it before answering, "Nah, I'm good, just jitters," he shakes his shoulders and arms as he speaks.

Clint nods and, since they're already dressed in dull, blending in, touristy clothes, he checks both his guns and motions for Steve to follow.

"We should be back in four hours, five at most," he tells Banner, "if we're not back by then, contact SHIELD like I showed you and get out of here."

"Will do," comes a confirmation and they're out the door.

~

The city is bustling with life and color in the afternoon sun as they make their winding way, disappearing through crowds of tourists and locals. Clint can't see anyone tailing them, so that's a plus.

"Aren't you worried," Steve asks as they board their third bus, "that someone's going to recognize us?"

Clint nods at him with comprehension. "Fury's scrubbed us from the media already." Steve scrunches his face, making Clint smile a tiny bit. "After the fight, there were all these people filming and taking pictures, you remember," he explains further. "SHIELD has a team that pulls that stuff from public places to protect assets."

"So they erased everything?"

"Not exactly, they just changed the images so that the faces are us, but not. Here," he pulls his phone and quickly finds a newspaper article, "see this pic of you, looks like you, but not really," and Steve nods with understanding, "so now only the people who've seen us with their own eyes in New York can recognize us. Even so, memories during high stress situations like aliens falling from the sky are not reliable, and we're half way around the world right now. So. Unlikely," he finishes with a shrug. There's always been a chance during undercover stints that someone somewhere was going to recognize an asset, so the idea just buzzes in the back of Clint's mind. He's aware of it, but the low probability it constantly presents just isn't worth the energy. They'll deal with it if it happens.

"See, I couldn't have imagined that while under," Steve says. It worries Clint.

"Are you ok?" he asks and Steve closes his eyes and draws air through his nose.

"Yeah, I know I'm not dreaming," he says as if reading Clint's mind, "I'd just like to--" he stops, reconsiders. "Tell me who you need me to be."

"You say the sweetest things," Clint returns with a grin he can't hold back, and Steve smacks him on the shoulder. "Be that guy," he says and feels his mouth twisting into that thing that secretly scares Natasha, "that killed a human for a mutt," because he needs ruthless. And if Steve really wants Clint, then he's going to have to stomach all of him, even the parts that terrify people. Clint's too detached by the mission to freak out about this, to worry about Steve's reaction, to overanalyze. He's happy to be in a place where he can cut off parts of himself to avoid hindrance. He'll mourn them later, if need be.

But Steve's spine just straightens, and his whole body loses its tightness, uncoils with relief, muscles of his shoulders rolling with the motion, and he's a soldier.

"Yessir," Steve smirks and Clint finds it pleasantly reassuring, how he takes second seat and trusts Clint with their actions.

They're finally in proximity of the mansion, and it's not exactly isolated, but embedded in a neighborhood of mansions amongst an assortment of buildings, mismatched patterns against the sky. Clint scans the surroundings and finds the best rooftop for a vantage point. Morrow, the other team's sniper would have been posted there, so he turns their steps and they make their way up through the building. It looks like deserted office space, large 'for lease' sign adorning its facade.

The lock to the roof is already picked, door slightly ajar, and Clint draws his gun silently as he pushes it open and looks around. The roof is empty, but Morrow's equipment, rifle and sniper nest are all there. A few drops of blood lead to a thin smear on the edge of the roof and it looks like Morrow took a hit and fell over. Clint tells Steve as much before taking the rifle and scoping the area. There are no other snipers anywhere that he can see, but on the roof of Carson's mansion there's a cutout into the plaster adornments that doesn't match the model. Clint's best bet is that that's where the shot that took out Morrow came from. He puts the rifle down and looks behind him, but there's nothing for a bullet to embed into, so he can't confirm his theory. Last thing to do is take a look down the side of the building, so he carefully does just that, as soon as he's sure that nobody can see him.

The large lease sign on the face of the building is a huge tarp tied with rope, rounding at the middle in a few folds as it hangs and shifts with the wind. So it takes Clint a few seconds, but under the slow flapping, he sees a body curled in the folds of the tarp. It's Morrow, and he swears under his breath when he realizes she's moving.

"Morrow's alive," he mutters and runs down the stairs, Steve on his heels. He counts the stories on their way down, keeping an eye out for human presence along the way, but the space is empty.

He skids to a halt in front of a window, the agent on the other side. He can see her halted breaths and the violent tremors shaking her curled body. There's very little blood, so he counts that as a good sign. Carefully and as fast as they can, they unscrew the window frame, pulling the glass pane inside. Morrow's badly tangled in a mess of thick strings, and it takes a few minutes to get her out without cutting through the tarp and attracting attention from the outside. If Carson's keeping an eye on this building, they need to be extra cautious.

They lay her on the carpet, Clint swiftly checking her body for injuries. Her ribs look bruised, and there's a bump on the side of her head, a cut in its middle as the likely source of the blood they've seen so far. There's a long scratch on the other side of her head, and her short hair looks a little bit singed on the edges in a straight line. Clint grimaces.

"That's one hell of a luck," he mutters and shows Steve the line, "bullet passed right here, looks big caliber."

"So you think she ducked, hit her head, fell over?"

"Looks like it," Clint says as he takes her pulse, "she'll have to confirm later, but now she's shocky from her injuries and exposure and we need to get her out of here, fast.”

"Tell me what to do," Steve nods and moves closer.

Clint pulls wet wipes from a pocket of his pants. "Clean up her face, make her presentable, I'll go get her stuff."

He returns a few minutes later with everything packed up in her duffel, after having cleaned what blood he could find up there. Steve's done a good job of wiping her down. They dress her in her jacket and, after replacing the window in its place, hoist her up between them, more carrying her than helping her walk. Clint's grateful for Steve's strength, 'cos Morrow's about as tall as Clint and even though not as muscular, the tac gear under her clothes feels like it weighs a ton on her uncooperative sluggish body.

"Hey babe," she slurs, "fancy meeting you h..." The words die out in a choke and a cough. "'m not so good," she wheezes.

"Yeah, I can see that," Clint replies from under her arm, "We're here now, gonna get you safe, 'k?"

Morrow groans something in the affirmative and they make their way out through the back of the building. Two alleyways later they come out on a larger street. Clint lets Steve hold her up as he grabs a cab with a chatty driver - "Started early, eh?" "Yeah, yeah, too much to drink." - and they soon stumble through the safehouse door.

"What happened?" Banner asks as he raises from the sofa.

"Gotta get her warm," is all Clint can manage before they're making their way to the same sofa.

Between Steve and Clint, they get her out of her clothes, while Banner's banging about in the small kitchen.

It's long minutes of blanket wrapping and rubbing down on Morrow's skin to get the blood going. Clint's been at the other end a couple of and times and it's the no fun kind of naked. Even more awkward for those not used to this, but it's surprising that Steve looks like he knows what he's doing. His touches are efficiently clinical, and Clint can't stop staring.

"You've done this before," he realizes.

Steve just nods, like he's unwilling to let a buried memory resurface. Clint gets it.

Morrow's coming back to herself, more aware of her surroundings just as Banner appears with something wet and hot in a mug. He's not a medical doctor and Clint just has very basic training, but they take down her vitals and connect to SHIELD medical. They get a "keep patient warm" "do what you're doing" "doesn't sound like concussion" "wrap up her ribs" and they finish the remote consult on a less grim note.

A couple of hours later a more coherent Morrow recounts the events that have brought her where they've found her. The mission had been going smoothly, her team mates had infiltrated the mansion under their covers.

"He never fucks them," she says, "the girls he calls for are there just for show, to entertain his _friends_ ," she air-quotes and shakes her head. "Going in there was never what intel suggested we'd find. He has shady characters in and out and we didn't find out how they're getting in, if not through the front gate. Romanov suspects underground passage, couldn't find from where to where, though."

Morrow pauses to hiss as she shifts the icepack against the side of her head.

"So they get bugs in place, I keep watch, and then the shithead has friends on the roof and they're fucking shooting at air. Barely had time to duck, then I fell, like a fucking newbie," she spits, discontent with herself, "no way out of that craptastic tarp but straight down twenty stories."

"Hey, now, I fall off roofs all the time," Clint offers.

"You _jump off on purpose_ , jackass," and there's the Morrow Clint knows and has trained. Steve looks at him eyebrows raised, but Clint ignores it.

"You're alive," he says, because he knows where this is going to end, and Morrow can't freak now, they have a mission to finish and people to retrieve.

She huffs and pulls the blankets tighter around her.

"Do you know what happened with Ms. Romanov and the other agents?" Steve asks.

"What the fuck do you mean what happened," she hisses, "why don't you know yet?" She doesn't yell, but it almost sounds like it.

"You knew they missed the check-ins?" Clint asks, but he already knows the answer.

"Lost my comm when I fell and when nobody came to get me, I knew _something_ must've happened," and Morrow sounds tired.

Well, that leaves them to their original plan, only they have a fourth now.

"Can you get back up there?" Clint asks and Morrow looks at him like she wants to commit murder with her bare hands.

"Sure," she grits, "nowhere else I'd rather be."

"Then get some rest, meet's at seven tomorrow," he replies with a thankful nod, and they give her the bullet points of the mission plan.

They eat, go over intel again, re-check facts. Clint is setting up equipment and restarting the video feeds of the streets surrounding the mansion when he overhears Steve and Morrow. Steve's sitting close to her on the sofa, sharing his body heat, and she looks a little less tattered.

"Barton trained a few of us, yeah," she's saying and he can't make out Steve's answer, but it drags a slow laugh out of her. "Used to hate that, so if you wanna piss him off, call him babe."

Clint huffs to himself in amusement. He needs to remember to tell Steve that story afterwards. "Hey, pipsqueak, don't bad-mouth your elders," he turns and raises an eyebrow for effect.

"You're talking, shortie?" she snorts inelegantly, but Clint's attention is caught by how Steve smiles at him, that intensity back in his eyes, layered upon half hungry and half fond.

Something pings on the computer behind him and he doesn't jump, but the moment's cut. Morrow's looking at them with quiet consideration, eyebrows raised to her hairline.

"Barton, I thought you were straight," she says with finality.

"Have you seen him?" Clint makes an up and down motion with his hand.

"Yeah, I'd turn straight for that, too," Morrow smirks into her mug as she blows over the steam. "But what does he see in you?"

Clint shrugs as Steve just sits there straight-faced for a second, waits for her to take a sip, and says "He gives swell blow jobs," then methodically wipes the tea that lands on him when Morrow spits it all over herself. Banner's laughing quietly with his nose in his book.

"You're mean," Clint grins.

"I know," comes back with a pleased smile.

~

They send Morrow and Banner to bed and take the first watch. The streets are deserted around Carson's place and the night is quiet. They've turned the lights off and are sitting in a couple of armchairs in front of the monitors, light breeze swaying the curtains slowly over the open window.

Steve looks far away for a while and Clint bumps their knees to bring him back. He turns sharply to look at Clint and there's a small frown on his forehead, his lips set in a hard line.

"If it weren't for my bod--" Clint's out of his seat and pressing his hand against Steve's mouth in .6 seconds, effectively cutting him off.

"Remember when I assumed shit and then made an ass of myself?" he asks, voice low, and Steve nods, his frown turning to confusion. "Then don't. It's not your body."

Steve stares at him stubbornly, but Clint stares back. It really isn't his body, he's already clarified that, and it's never even crossed his mind to let Steve know as well. He feels the vibrations of a mumble in his palm and removes his hand.

"If you're sure," he sighs, and then tops it off with "It's the same for you, you know."

"I know," he says, the familiar warmth spreading into his chest. It's muted now, through the filter of his mission focused state, but it's still there, and unburdened by self doubt or pain or raw wounds. "Thank you," he adds, grabbing Steve's hand and placing his lips on the knuckles.

He stays like that for a long while, eyes closed, listening to Steve breathe next to him, until a strong hand pulls at his arm and he goes willingly. Steve arranges him in his lap sideways, and Clint goes back to watching the monitors, his head on a warm, safe shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've never been to Kuala Lumpur, but I checked with people and the seasons and it seems like there's high humidity in May there, so I'm assuming cold tarp + dehydration + breeze + humidity + head bang, might lead to hypothermia. I'm not a medical doctor either... ugh. Well, I'm chucking it up to poetic license, but if anyone has a better idea that sounds more realistic, please let me know.  
> ~  
> Now updated based on real doctor information. Sorry about the confusion.


	5. Chapter 5

The four of them manage a few good hours of rotating sleep, and Clint's grateful no nightmares poke through, for either him or Steve. He's gone into ops with less sleep before, but this time he can't shake off the dread uncoiling in the pit of his stomach.

He's checking the guns with Morrow when Steve joins them, then it's only a few minutes before Steve can easily handle the two handguns Clint's chosen for him. He keeps hesitating, in tiny fractions, as if the weapons don't fit his hands.

"No shield," he offers when Clint raises a silent eyebrow at him.

"No bow," Clint throws back and that's that. Steve envelops himself in his cover far easier than Clint had expected. It unsettles him, but not in a bad way, instead tamping down on his uneasiness with the mission, and Clint doesn't need this right now, so he focuses on getting them ready.

The clothes guys at SHIELD had chosen their attires for them, but Clint offers advice as he helps Steve and Banner dress, "don't hold this hand here", "straighten shoulder like so", "don't hide the holster, you're supposed to play bodyguard", "that accent sounds too fake, try again", "loosen up, Dutra's a self important asshole", "I'm getting this gel in your hair whether you like it or not, Steve", "Morrow, shut up or I'll put you in heels", "he's a sleaze, just say creepy things and leer", "bodyguards don't have to speak, you'll be fine", "Banner, honest to god, I don't care if you can't speak Portuguese, just fake an accent", "I can dress myself, Steve."

Clint closes the bedroom door behind him and takes a deep breath. This is going to be _so much fun_ , he stops a whine from spilling out of his throat. He forces himself to shake off all worries, he needs to be on top of his game.

He dresses quickly in a dark gray suit with a stupid white tie, but he's supposed to be an assistant to a man with a direct line to half the weapons traffickers in the hemisphere, and although Dutra always looks like he's sleeping in ditches, he has enough money to own a private jet. Banner's finally managed to display a good enough impersonation. Clint supposes it will have to do. Dutra's bodyguard, a guy named Mikal, is a mountain of a man with bad attitude and a few missing teeth, but also very cheap with words, so Steve won't have much trouble just standing there looming. He's already looking pretty menacing in the all-black suit - shirt and tie, too - he's wearing. It's a little cliché, but hey. Clint grins, maybe he'll convince Steve to keep the suit. He's surprising himself with the thought, but he's in that state of sharp and focused lucidity that strips away any sort of hangups, allows him to be a killer. It apparently allows him to enjoy lusting after Steve, too. He's suddenly imagining himself on his back, opening his legs for Steve, weight pinning him down. Huh, look at that. His heart twists and thumps with the first traces of adrenaline, and he takes a deep breath, lets himself slide off into that place that sometimes fuels his guilt, and he's ready.

Clint's still grinning when he returns to the living room, there's a heady feeling gripping his shoulders, caressing his hips. Tasha's told him once that he looks well fucked when he's like this, and there's a long moment when Steve sees him and freezes, even his chest stops drawing air. Clint moves with the sort of fluidity that he knows can get women wet, he can't help himself putting on a show for Steve. He takes his guns, packs himself with a few blades strewn on the table, and slips a set of lockpicks embedded inside a pen in his jacket pocket, letting his fingers brush his nipple under his white shirt.

He looks up at Steve, like a challenge, but instead of pink cheeks he sees a darkened gaze that travels through his spine in a warm flush. Clint knows, in that very moment, that he's going to pay for this later, because Steve can't turn himself on and off like Clint does. He has been expecting this, really, and maybe he's just sabotaging himself, but maybe he's tired of waiting. The him that is here now is not the one that needs Steve to feel safe, not the one that's dangerously close to codependency. The Clint here is the predator that got named Hawkeye, and this guy knows how to take.

He stares Steve down, a promise, a warning, and a plea. In return, he gets white teeth under stretched lips, not a smirk or a grin, but a genuine smile, and a spike of fear jolts him. Clint lets himself savor it, draws air through his nostrils, the world sharp around him. He's aware of everything at once and not one thing holds his attention more than another, just as every single thing is the most important one to focus on.

Banner comes out of the bathroom, Morrow from the other bedroom, and they move out. They check into the hotel where Dutra has reservations at a few minutes past 3PM. Morrow sets up on the roof she'd been using before and checks in through their comm link. Clint swipes the room for bugs, but doesn't find any. So far, so good. They open up their fake suitcases, leave the shower running for a while, constructing the semblance of people fresh off the road and Banner's getting more jittery by the minute.

"Relax, doc," Clint says and Steve immediately adds "You're gonna be fine, Dr. Banner."

"Easy for you to say," he breathes deeply a few times and Clint has to remind him they're all carrying tranqs, pulling out one of the small pressure release syringes to make his point. "What if they search us for weapons?" he asks at that.

"They might," Clint says, "but your job is weapons, so it's expected for you to carry something."

"Ok, ok," Banner mutters and squares his shoulders.

At 5PM a bellhop delivers a message, plain piece of paper with an address on it.

"Morrow," he calls through the comm, "location's changed," and rattles off the new address.

"That's about five streets over from here," she replies, "can't see it through the buildings, though. Want me to move?"

"No, hold position," Clint says and thinks it over for a moment. "Is Carson still in the mansion?"

"Yes, sir," Morrow acknowledges.

"What are you thinking?" Steve asks when Clint falls silent.

"That we found the entrance to that underground passage."

~

They are searched in the living room of the empty house that occupies the address they've received and Clint's impressed by Banner.

"What the hell is this?" one of the grunts asks.

"Tranquilizers," and Banner's so calm, Clint wants to kiss him.

"Why would you have _that_ with you," a different voice resounds from the other side of the room and Carson's moving to them, gait menacing.

Banner looks at him, bored, and waves a hand. "You know, incentive for little girls."

"Little girls," Carson repeats with interest.

"And little boys." Banner points a thumb over his shoulder at Steve. "You don't wanna do this one, heavy. But this," and he leers with half his mouth at Clint, "worth all the money."

Clint's going to kill him. Steve just smirks there, completely selling it. Eh, could be worse.

"Jonathan Carson," the man introduces himself with a laugh.

"Dutra," Banner shakes the extended hand, keeping his air of boredom. "I was expecting more... furniture," he adds with a lazy roll of his hand.

"And I was expecting stuffy, sweaty and fat." Carson's voice has an edge to it that Clint doesn't like.

"People have no sense of humor, and you need better surveillance, my friend," Banner just drawls and pulls another laugh out of Carson, who relaxes visibly.

"It's finally nice to meet you, Mr. Dutra. Your reputation precedes you."

Banner makes a non-committal sound to that. Clint's at least happy he's been listening to his advice.

"Well, don't keep me waiting," Banner snaps his fingers, and Clint moves swiftly, taking back their weapons and replacing one of the tranqs in Banner's coat pocket.

They haven't found Clint's knives, not one of them. Heh.

~

They're led through an underground passage, just like Clint has suspected, and Carson's a bad trafficker. He's giving way too much information about himself, boasting over the tunnel and that he's holding business deals in his mansion without anyone being the wiser. Morrow snorts in his ear and asks permission to fillet his ass. Clint regrets ever training snipers for SHILED. Now he knows how Coulson must have felt with Clint in his ear and, for the first time, the memory of the agent doesn't choke him, but adds a lifetime of knowledge to his repertoire, as if Coulson were there, supporting, calculating, maneuvering the op. It adds to his confidence. He's here to bring Tasha home. Coulson would approve.

There are quite a few people milling about the large expanse of Carson's mansion ground floor, its semi-open configuration allowing for clear lines of sight into most corners. Clint can't see any young women resembling either Natasha's team, or other call girls. He leans into Banner's space like a dutiful assistant to whisper just that.

"What, no entertainment?" Banner asks Carson's back as he leads the way to a side door.

"Business first, pleasure later, Mr. Dutra," Carson throws over his shoulder, "besides, it'll be worth the wait." The toothed grin he shows only spells bad news. Clint keeps his eyes open.

They go down toward a basement level, and Carson opens one of the two doors at the bottom of the stairs. When Banners asks uninterestedly what's the other door for, Carson just cryptically states 'entertainment' and Clint's already formed a theory of where the girls went. It gets confirmed when Lancas' gray hair pops up from bending over a table holding a disassembled missile. How the hell did intel miss this, Carson wasn't the world's brightest villain for fuck's sake. He has a niggling suspicion that Lancas is the mastermind here and if it's true, they might have themselves more of a challenge.

After another set of introductions, Banner inspects the circuitry as instructed, hums here and there while poking at wires, and then concludes that the chips are fine, there's a capacitor there that's way too large and discharges too slow. Somehow, Clint's sure that's not the case and something might blow up in there if they do what Banner's suggesting. It might also be complete gibberish, but he'll work with what he can get at this point. His fingers itch for his bow and he wants to run off to the other side of the basement where he's pretty sure he'll find Natasha.

He takes stock of the surroundings, counting goons, eight of them, counting weapons, all armed, even granny, and he calculates his chances of waking up the Hulk if he starts a fight in such an enclosed space. He doesn't like the result. But Banner's a fucking mind reader tonight and he snaps his fingers at Clint.

"Drink," he barks.

Clint's sent off with an escort toward the main floor, but he manages to swipe Carson's keycard on his way out.

The guy, stocky and big, but with a slight limp, waits for him as he grabs some water, and he takes the opportunity to check in with Morrow.

"Might need you on the ground fast," he whispers, "Banner and Rogers are with the weapons, Lancas is here, I think they're holding some girls prisoners, high chance team's with them. "

"Copy that, ready to rappel, sir," Morrow clips, but there's tension in her voice, joke falling hollow.

"I'm going in there," he adds.

"Be careful, Barton, I'm not saving your sorry ass if you get sold into slavery," comes a mutter, and the line goes silent.

It's quite a risk, he knows, to go in there without confirmation, but he can't afford to wait. Lancas being on the premises has changed things and there's a high probability the call girls Carson has ordered will be soon sold into Lancas' trafficking business. By the way Carson's been saying 'entertainment', it looks like some of them might be sold off to the upstairs crowd.

The second he reaches the landing at the bottom of the stairs, he turns and shoves the water bottle he's been holding into the surprised goon's mouth, pushing fast and hard until he's rewarded with a wet sloshy sound. He wastes no time in planting his fist in the man's solar plexus and then slams his head on the wall behind him. He's into the other door dragging dead weight in 1.4 seconds. Natasha'd have done it in .8, ah well.

The corridor that opens behind the door is empty - no cameras either, he determines - and there are more doors adorning the walls on the left and on the right. He drops the goon in a corner, draws his weapon and proceeds carefully. There are small barred windows on the doors and when he peeks inside, he finds young women and men in various states of undress, confinement and griminess.

He finds Natasha with Franklin and Jones in one of the larger cells, cramped together between filthy and battered bodies.

"What took you so long," she hisses through the bars after she approaches the door.

"Why didn't you get out, if you're not dead," Clint's beginning to get a little angry. Natasha looks perfectly fine, nothing more than a bruise on her cheek, Franklin and Jones don't seem wounded behind her, Carson's security is not all that good and Natasha's better than this.

"Not without them!" Natasha's words are whispered even lower, but she's yelling at him. Clint's almost taken aback for a second before he realizes what she's saying.

This is Lancas' main operation point. Fuck.

He quietly picks the lock of the cell door and is relieved when the women in the room don't rush out in panic. Franklin and Jones are instructing them to keep silent, hushed words of reassurance hanging in the air.

Natasha's the only one that leaves the cell. "We're taking this place down," she says with finality and he doesn't question it.

"There's a passage into a house a few streets over," Clint starts, already re-arranging moves in his head, "entrance is in a basement, but on the other side," he points in the direction they first came from. "This corridor goes to the weapons storage and into the party upstairs."

"They brought us in from this side," Natasha adds, "I think I saw the way you came in, big large steel door with a big C on it?"

Clint nods. "That's the one."

"Fucking unbelievable, this guy is like a ridiculous movie villain," she huffs. "I'll take them out that way," she says when he hands her a gun, half his knives, and a spare comm.

"Going to get Rogers and Banner," he supplies, but Natasha makes a sound very close to a squeal.

"Banner's here?"

As if on cue, a loud bang interrupts them and the walls shake slightly. They jump into action, Natasha unlocking doors, the other two agents herding people away, and Clint runs to where he'd left his team mates.

He runs into the room just in time to duck a punch from a meaty fist. There's a small fire on the table with the circuitry, Banner's breathing heavily in a corner, and Steve's holding a gun to Lancas' head.

"Put the fucking gun down or he's dead," Carson's voice accompanies the barrel of the weapon that appears at the right edge of his field of vision.

But Clint grins, winks at Steve, grabs the gun from Carson's hand and slaps him over the face hard enough to send him down. Lancas snorts on the other side of the room, unperturbed, and Clint has a very bad feeling about it.

"Restrain them," she says.

Chaos breaks in the room. Clint's busy exchanging blows and embedding knives in flesh, but he yells at Banner to run. He can concentrate better on the fight when the doctor manages to escape. Soon, it's just him and Steve left, one goon each, but Lancas opens a panel in the far wall and more troop in. Clint puts up a fight, but they're overwhelmed sooner than he would've liked. The last thing he sees before a blow over the head brings him down is Steve bashing a guy's nose in with a spark in his eyes, and he can only think of how beautiful he looks, bloody and wild.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then.
> 
> Do I need trigger warnings for this?

The smell of wet forest and rotting leaves fills Clint's nose and he looks around as he runs, sounds of gunshots around him. He sees Steve ahead and he hurries along, smoke cutting the air, blood streaking the muddy ground. He's soon close enough and Steve turns, grabs him by the middle and spins him half a circle, happy laughter on his lips, eyes bright on his dirty face. His white t-shirt is just as filthy, and they fall down.

Steve rolls Clint on his back and straddles his legs, runs his fingers down the middle of his chest. He's mesmerizing, lips parted, teeth white, his gaze turning more piercing with every rake of his fingers on Clint's ribs. It's soon darkened with the intensity that draws long, slow shudders out of Clint, Steve's fingers scrabbling through his flesh, cutting deep, pulling his skin apart. He's being ripped open, his chest on fire, as Steve's hand finally slides inside, tugging at his essence, scrubbing it of fear, shame, hatred, doubt.

He's clean.

A beautiful shine makes its way into the middle of Steve's torso, as he sits on top of him. Clint's fascinated for a second, before the spear pushes out through Steve, and he falls to the side, revealing Loki's smirking face behind him.

~

Clint jolts awake with much more movement than he'd have liked. He clears his head brusquely, and quietly takes in the room and himself. His wrists are tied to a pipe in the ceiling, but his arms don't hurt, so he hasn't been there for long, though the back of his head is throbbing in tandem with his heartbeat. Steve's unconscious on the floor and there's one of the tranq syringes next to him, so they must have dosed him, but Clint can see his chest moving as he breathes. He inhales once, pushing the nightmare from his mind.

Throughout the room, a handful of goons surround the space, Carson's pacing its length clutching at his cheek and Lancas has noticed Clint's awake. Right. Show time.

It's really not the place he wants to be right now. He hopes Natasha's made it outside and Banner hasn't Hulked out. The latter doesn't seem likely when Lancas asks "Who do you work for?"

Clint grins at her and it's clear she doesn't want to show it, but she's pissed by the whole thing and she's in dire need of information.

The only door of the room opens with a creak and another goon enters carrying a bucket. Clint can see the ice cubes in it as the man moves next to Steve. That's _really_ not a good idea.

"You don't wanna do that," he says.

Lancas takes the wrong cue out of it, a malicious little smile forming on her face.

"You don't want us to hurt your friend, right? Then talk."

Clint huffs. "Trust me," he presses on every word, "you don't wanna do that."

"What are you going to do, hm?" she comes closer, pulls at his cheek and Clint snaps her teeth at her fingers. "Aww, feisty, aren't we."

He barely abstains from rolling his eyes and settles on a pointed look. She looks amused, flicks her wrist and the goon dumps the contents of the bucket on Steve's face.

He sits up with a gasp, but a couple of other grunts move fast enough to take advantage of his disorientation and grab him by his arms, bringing him to his knees.

Steve wheezes through the cold sensation, eyes roaming around the room until they settle on Clint. He looks at Clint like he's lost, like he doesn't know where he is, so much trust in such a small fragment of time, a simple request in one gaze and Clint shivers on the inside.

"You're awake," he says gently, ignoring Lancas and the others in the room. "It's ok to hurt them, baby."

And Steve's off his knees, breaking the zip ties connecting his wrists behind his back as he twists sideways and up, stops with both his fists in Carson's mouth. One step forward, another goon down, and he reaches to his right, grabs an extended limb and bone cracks open through the skin. The guy doesn't have time to scream before Steve's hand is on his neck and he's being lifted through the air, slammed into another grunt.

Clint counts twenty four seconds and and six unconscious men before Steve's breathing heavily, chest heaving, as he stares down Lancas and the gun she's pointing at him. For an instant, Clint can't help the proud smile threatening to spread on his lips. He covers it, but it's too late. Lancas's seen it and she points the gun at Clint.

The shot reverberates through the pipes and brick walls that surround them.

Clint blinks.

Lancas is going down when Steve brings the butt of her own gun to her temple and Clint can't feel any sort of pain. The shot has missed him, he breathes in relief. He looks up to see if he can actually get out of his restraints without help, but Steve's hands are suddenly there, snapping his binds and helping him down.

Clint's never seen Steve so serene before, he looks like he's floating, a pleased smile on his face. Clint returns it, and for a moment there's nothing else in the world but this connection. They're close enough to inhale each other's breaths, and even if they don't touch, there's a sort of exalted warmth permeating the space between them.

A drop of water slides down Steve's cheek onto his neck, distracting Clint. He follows it down with his eyes, as it embeds in the collar of his black shirt and there's a gaping bloody hole on the right side of it. It halts the breath Clint's been drawing and he can't stop the keening sound that escapes his throat.

Steve notices and looks down, craning his neck to see. He pulls at the shirt, revealing broken skin, bleeding sluggishly down his undershirt. But he just stares for a few of Clint's slow heartbeats, and then puts his fingers of his other hand around it, pulls the edges of the wound apart. The bullet's stuck into his collarbone, but the bone is not broken. Steve assesses it with a sort of cold detachment that flips Clint's stomach in its place and puts his fingers inside the wound, tries to take it out.

His fingers are a little too big, though, and his grip on the bullet slides through the blood. Before Clint can even register what he's doing, his fingers replace Steve's and he tugs hard, bullet coming out, sliding into his hand.

Steve rubs the skin around the edges of the wound, turns a happy face to Clint.

"Ow," he says softly.

Clint's mind is racing, the still warm metal digging into his palm where he's gripping it. He sees the angles, the trajectory, Lancas' height, inclination of the barrel, where he was hanging... he chokes.

"It was supposed to go through my head," he croaks.

"But it didn't," Steve whispers, content look on his face.

 _Fuck_. He licks his dry lips. There are no sounds in his throat, no air in his lungs, no thoughts in his head.

Clint Barton just died.

Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders and when did his knees go weak? It's not the first time he's been so close to death, but _Steve just took a bullet for him_. Reality's rushing in, and he's painfully aware of how little time has passed since he's known Steve. It took him _years_ to build the same rapport with Natasha, so he's at a loss.

There's a sort of desperation that wraps itself around him, because if their places were reversed? He'd have done the same thing. No doubt about it. And a few inches up it would have been the jugular. Clint doubts Steve would have recovered from that one.

"What did you do," he clutches at Steve when his body wants to bend itself over.

Steve wraps himself around Clint, brings his mouth close to his ear and croons softly, shushing him. "If anybody's gonna break you, it's gonna be me."

Steve's just spoiled Clint for anyone else. He's done. A jagged laugh escapes his throat, finally.

"You're insane."

"You knew that already," lips move close to the arch of his ear, almost touching.

"Fuck."

"Maybe later," Steve replies, and real laughter bubbles out of Clint's chest.

There's movement to their side as Carson rises to his feet, holding onto his bloody mouth. Clint sighs and it's matched by Steve. Carson's eyes are wild with horror as he looks at them.

"Told you not to do that," Clint states and untangles himself from Steve. Op's not over. He walks over to Carson, grabs him by his shirt, pulls him to the hook hanging from the pipe and they tie him there before he can utter a single word.

The door slams open and Natasha appears, stops in the doorway, hands on her hips. "Hm," she says as she takes in the room.

Clint bends sideways to look behind her, a string of bodies littering the hallway that stretches into darkness.

"Haven't lost your touch I see," she tells him, but Clint points at Steve.

"This one was all him."

"Wow, Rogers," Natasha drawls, all hard edges that never show if she's joking or murderous, "didn't know you had it in you."

There's an entire silent conversation happening next, as Steve shrugs, Natasha raises an eyebrow at the wound in his shoulder, Steve looks at Clint, and it's Clint's turn to shrug.

"Really." She says, crossing her arms.

"Apparently so," Clint confirms.

Natasha turns her face brusquely to Steve. "He's one of a kind," Steve offers, undisturbed. No self preservation at all, Clint thinks.

"I know," she presses on both words, turning it into a whole book with just those sounds. Clint clears his throat, time to move this along.

"Status," he asks.

"Got everyone out safely, Banner's calm, didn't change, got the armed grunts, weapons are secured, warheads disabled, found documents in Lancas' office detailing several more operations than we expected."

"And you did all that," Clint rolls his finger in the air, "before coming to get us? Where are we anyway?"

She almost snorts. Almost. "Still in the basement, this place is a fucking fortress, it took us a while to locate you." She pauses, listening to her comm. "Fury wants to talk to you," she says and hands over the receiver.

Clint dreads it, whatever it is.

Fury says "good job, agent" and "international politics" and "wrapping up quietly, no loose ends" and Clint wants to scream. He just says "yes, sir" instead and Fury's welcoming him back. Which would mean no more probation, no more surveillance. But is it worth it?

He hands the comm back to Natasha and she slinks out of the room, knowing look on her face.

"What did he want?" Steve turns to look at him.

"They're bad people," is all that Clint manages and he sees understanding dawning over Steve.

Clint bends down, picks up a gun, unlocks the safety.

"How bad?" Steve plays along, moving closer.

"Very. Selling people against their will bad." Clint raises his arm, points the gun at Lancas' head as she lays on the floor.

Steve is there though, presses himself against Clint's back. He wraps an arm around his middle and the other sneaks along Clint's extended one. He moves his fingers, matches Clint's hand on the gun, slides his index on the trigger. He touches a kiss onto Clint's temple, breath hot against his skin.

He shoots.

Carson's screaming behind them, so Steve twists both their bodies, aiming high, and squeezes the trigger again.

He relaxes their extended arms, makes Clint drop the gun and all Clint can do is lean back into him, letting his head roll back on the shoulder there. Steve's free arm slides up his chest, along that place that feels dug into, and rests his palm over Clint's throat.

Steve has taken death from Clint twice now. Everything is muted, nothing outside the half inch that separates Steve's lips from his cheek, the singe of fingertips against Clint's throat, the bite of the mangled bullet inside his palm.

"What are you doing to me?" Clint shivers, voice scratchy.

"I'm loving you, sweetheart."

He's clean. Alive.


	7. Chapter 7

Steve is silent. He doesn't step more than an arm's length away from Clint, is pliant when Clint guides him this way and that. Fury's sent a quinjet for extraction and a clean-up crew, cos that's what kind of bastard he is. Force them to do the hard work, swoop in and collect the spoils. Clint couldn't give a bigger fuck, he just wants to go home, to Steve's room, to Steve's bed.

He lets medical check them out, but he doesn't let them clean any of the blood, doesn't want foreign hands tainting what Steve did for him, intruding in their world. As Steve sits next to him on the quinjet, eyes closed, head leaned back, Clint's thumb over the pulse point on his wrist, it occurs to Clint just how much Steve trusts Clint to keep him safe. It's humbling, in a way. Satisfying. Exalting.

Natasha's glaring everyone who comes close to them into backing away, into blessed silence, and Clint couldn't be more grateful. It's like she knows, but then again she always knows. She's his twin, fighting back to back, holding close as they fall through the harsh realities of life. Steve, however, Steve's a counter balance, has caught him in a sort of gravitational pull that keeps Clint spinning. And it feels like Natasha sees it and she approves of it.

"I'm sorry I ran," she says quietly, a few hours into the flight.

From the corner of his eye Clint sees Steve crack his eyes open, looks at her without moving his head. She lets him. Clint waves a hand, apologies not necessary gesture, in front of him. There's dried blood on his fingers and a sudden infusion of _need_ floods him.

"Actually, can you do me a favor?" he asks her and receives a questioning look in return. "Get them to drop us off at the tower, Fury can shove his debriefing up his--"

Morrow coughs loudly from a corner and Clint rolls his eyes at her. Natasha smirks, but complies.

~

It's still dark when they land on the roof of the tower, in the late hours of the night. Banner jumps out with them and swiftly disappears to where he needs to be to keep hold of himself, but Natasha flies to base with the rest of her team.

Clint keeps a tight grip on Steve's arm as they make their way to his bedroom, guides him into the bathroom. The air is quiet around them, stillness permeating the space, JARVIS utterly silent. He undresses Steve first, button after button, laces and zippers, clothes making their way to the hamper in the corner in soft rustles. He takes his time, tracing his fingers along the edges of blood stains, lets trembling fingertips skirt the surface of the wound still red on Steve's collarbone.

Clint draws them both into the shower stall and the water is hot on their bodies. He rubs and cleans and runs his fingers on vast expanses of skin with a reverence that echoes inside his entire being. Steve watches him, eyes dark and knowing, heavy with presence. It carves at Clint's need, the way Steve allows whatever Clint's doing, however he touches. The only outward reactions are the movement of his chest as he inhales deeply, and the way he holds himself perfectly still, holds himself back, waits for Clint.

Steve's been waiting for a long time, Clint realizes.

He gently places the soap in Steve's hand, and wipes at the silent tears on Steve's cheeks when he's scrubbing Clint down. He doesn't waste time, just cleans, and when he's finished he takes a step back, leans into the wall with his hands behind him, speaks for the first time since the basement.

"Clint," his voice is hoarse with more than disuse, "if you walk out there with me, I'm going to _have_ you. If you wanna run, do it now."

He's still not down from the mission focus he's been carrying. He doesn't know _how_ to come down anymore, it's like Steve's bolted him in this place devoid of dysphoria.

He extends a hand. "Not running," he whispers and doesn't bother to hide the smile tugging at his lips.

Steve's nostrils flare, his pupils dilate, but he doesn't move any faster when Clint pulls him out of the stall, starts drying them both. There's an immensity of calmness surrounding them, no urgency despite the way Steve just vibrates with _want_.

Clint's dizzy with it.

The moment the towel leaves Clint's hand, Steve's closing in, wrapping an arm around his waist and the other on the back of his neck, chests and bellies pressed together. He walks Clint back slowly into the dark bedroom, half steps like an almost-dance, and Clint's hands latch themselves on Steve's hips, like they've always belonged there.

They hit the edge of the bed and Steve's pushing them down in a gentle fall, settles on top of Clint, one hand on the mattress holding him up enough to look at Clint, the other's fingertips tracing the edges of his face, forehead, eyebrow, cheek, lips. It's addicting.

"I've been wanting," Steve says, voice gravelly, before he lowers his head and there is nothing else in the world but lips on lips, hot breath, tongues and teeth. Steve swallows Clint's breathless pants, pushing in, drawing him out, fueling a fire low in the pit of his stomach, soothing the sharp pain in the core of his chest.

"I know," he breathes when Steve retracts.

"No, you don't," he whispers, "you really, _really_ don't." Clint's heart flips itself painfully and Steve kisses at his chest before continuing, lips on Clint's ribs. "Nobody ever saw me," he murmurs, "not before, when I was weak, not after. They never saw me, just the carcass. This corpse that I live in, like a ghost," his voice takes an edge and Steve pauses, breathes. "So when we were fighting the aliens and you were up there, _seeing_ everything, all I could think about was how I wanted to be watched like that. I was awake in the future for two months then and I was still invisible. You can't imagine how badly I wanted for someone to see me, for _you_ to see me."

Steve breaks off, presses his forehead onto Clint's chest. There's a tremor in his shoulders, muscles bunched tight, his breath shaky against naked skin. Clint grips his bottom lip between his teeth, tries to relax the fingers fisted in Steve's hair. This is unexpected.

"I tried to stay away because I wasn't sure if you'd be real or a dream. When all I could give you was insanity and death, how could I make you look at me? Yet I wanted to _take_ , everything. Your attention, your sight, you. That morning," he chokes, "you were here and I couldn't remember _any of it_ and it was--"

There's a sharp shudder running through Steve's shoulders and Clint doesn't need to hear the rest. Instead, he _needs_ to show Steve that he's watching, that he's seeing, how he's so full of Steve, it's ripping him apart from the inside. It slices through him, one last time, this knowledge, time spent together re-arranges through Clint's memories under the filter of Steve's want and he _hurts_ for Steve, with finality. He pulls at his head, lifts it from his chest.

"Steve," his voice is cracking around the sounds, "take whatever you want, it's yours. _I'm yours_."

Steve inhales once, one large gasp, and Clint's chest freezes in tandem with it. He shifts, slides off of Clint, leaning on an elbow so he can watch, run his hand over Clint's front. His fingertips brush over nipples, quivering muscles of his middle, up the side of his cock, before returning to grip onto the back of Clint's neck, hold him in place.

This kiss comes even slower, and it's so gentle, it numbs Clint's fingers when they scrabble for Steve, latching onto the muscle of his arms, his shoulders, his chest. It's timeless, suspended in the rays of dawn coming up over the city skyline. Steve breaks the contact, laughter bubbling happily from his throat as he watches Clint, rapt. His eyes shine, one bright and one dark as the light outlines his profile, and Clint doesn't hold back, surges up, retakes the lips and inhales the happy smile.

Steve's hand travels back down, wraps itself around Clint's cock and _oh_... he's hard. Really, really hard. It draws a low moan out of him when Steve strokes gently, almost not there. The happy sound is back spilling from Steve's lips as he raises his hand to rake his fingers all over Clint, digging into the muscle, pressing in all the right spots, making Clint's back arch off the bed.

"Look at you, sweetheart," he says and flips Clint easily over.

He kneels over Clint, one knee against each hip, presses his erection on Clint backside as he leans over.

"Untainted," he whispers against Clint's ear, " _mine_."

Steve stretches, grabbing at Clint's hands, moving them up on the bed, and holds him down. "I'm going to open you, Clint, push myself inside, and fuck you until you scream."

The way he talks, with such conviction - he doesn't doubt Steve will do exactly as he says - makes Clint's hips buck against the mattress, shivers running down his spine. He places his forehead against the sheets, trying to calm his rapidly beating heart.

Steve kisses the back of his neck and then shifts up, grabs something from his nightstand. "Is this brand good? JARVIS said it was recommended or so," he says and brings a plastic lube bottle in Clint's field of vision. He's never had much use of it, so he shrugs, and there's a sudden rush of awareness at the reality of what's going to happen. He doesn't panic, but there's a jolt of something unpleasant running through him and he scrabbles to grip at Steve.

But Steve's already there, back on him, holding him down. "Hey," he whispers between kisses to Clint's temple and cheek, "calm down, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

Steve stills him, like always, he's _safe_ , and Clint exhales stiffly. He wraps his hand around Steve's, laces their fingers together. "I don't know," he mumbles, "don't stop."

"Oh, I won't. We can pause as many times you want," comes back hot in his ear, "I'll wait you out, but you're not leaving this bed before I'm done with you."

He should be afraid, he should be terrified. Instead, relief washes through him and he goes limp against the bed.

"That's right," another peck on his temple, "not letting you run, not letting you go," and he can't stop the whimper escaping his throat. Clint had no idea he needed this reassurance - oh boy, he's gonna have to come back to that one later -, but apparently Steve did and Clint _trusts_.

Steve runs his hands down his back and Clint stretches with them, languid, letting himself be spread out. "I've never done this before," he needs to say as way of explanation.

"I know," Steve sounds both amused and hungry at the same time. "I'll make sure you never forget me," he adds and Clint barks a laugh.

Desire is uncoiling in him, trickling through his limbs and into the small of his back where Steve's hand is resting. Lips place open-mouthed kisses along his spine just as that hand slides down, pushes his legs open further, caresses his thighs. Clint draws in large breaths, and buries his face in the comforter below him, fists his hands in the sheets.

"I think," he rasps, voice tight, "that you're going to break me," he trails off in a low sound ripped from his throat when Steve runs his fingers over his balls, places them somewhere in a spot behind them and presses. He rubs a thumb over his entrance, wet and slick.

"That's the point," Steve almost growls in his ear, "so no one can ever have you but me," and he pushes in, all the way to the second knuckle.

Clint can feel the bones in Steve's finger as his muscles clench tight around it, his dick throbbing between his belly and the sheets.

"Fuck."

"In a minute, baby," Steve grins against his ear, making Clint huff out a choked laugh. It relaxes his muscles, though, and soon he can feel the thumb moving out, dragging slowly, back in again. He inhales and exhales with every slow drag, urged on by Steve's crooning encouragements, until the motion stops and the pad of the thumb _scrapes_ on something that makes him want to spill all the air from his lungs. So that's how _that_ feels. No wonder prostate's so popular.

Steve makes a sound in the back of his throat, the arm that's resting on the back of Clint's neck shaking slightly, and Clint dares a look over his shoulder. Steve is wrecked. With capital W. He looks at Clint then, a century of everything in his eyes, keeps his gaze as he rubs again, deep inside, a few times, gentler, pulling tremors from Clint's entire body.

He pulls away, then, and there's more wetness _there_ , Steve's both hands spreading him open, other fingers going in, two this time, and they tug at his entrance, brush against his insides, make him choke on his own breath. For some reason he feels more exposed like this, Steve watching where he's preparing Clint, so that Steve can put his _cock inside of Clint_ , own him completely. It makes Clint giddy to welcome Steve inside, because as much as he's giving to him right now, he's going to get back and Steve will be his in return.

There are three fingers now, Steve pulling them apart, opening him further and Clint's cheeks flush at the thought of Steve seeing _inside_. He shudders, hiding a low whine against the sheets. Steve stretches back up to him, shushing him softly. The fingers disappear for a moment - there's a flash of white in the corner of his eye where a packet of wet tissues lands on the floor, and wow, he's never thought of that -, then return to fist strong fingers into his hair, caress his shoulders.

There's a kiss on the back of his neck, a hand sneaking beneath him tugs gently at his erection, making Clint buck against the mattress. Steve makes a pleased sound, breathing hotly between his shoulder blades as he settles on Clint. He pulls his hand back out, grabs both of Clint's and grips them tightly, fingers intertwined.

There's a moment when he pulls their arms to bend at the elbows, bracing them both, and then Steve _moves._ He shifts his entire body, mass of muscle heavy and hard against Clint's back and _oh_.

Steve pushes inside in one long move, stopping with his hips against Clint's ass just as his cheek joins Clint's. He lets his forehead drop next to his on the sheet, breaths heavily shaking his chest against Clint's back. For a second, Clint is frozen, lost in how Steve's falling apart around him, before there's a burning stretch echoing up into his spine. Steve grins with a low chuckle next to his ear and then he moves again, back down and up, splitting him open. He stops to bite at Clint's shoulder, distracting him from the burn, but it only lasts a moment before Steve does it again, and again, and when he pushes inside, his weight causes all the air to rush out of Clint's lungs, forcing him to inhale sharply on the downstroke.

"Breathe, Clint, breathe," he hears after a while, ears ringing suddenly, "come on, sweetheart, stay with me."

His throat catches up and sound spills out, sound that he can't understand, can't classify. It makes Steve moan into his ear, so he likes it. There's _burn_ and _scrape_ , pain and pleasure, and Steve's there, solid against his back, so strong, he has killed with the hands holding him down. He's pushing into Clint, fluid movement, muscles bunching, keeping him safe, away from the world. He pushing in, pressing Clint into the mattress, causing delicious friction against heated flesh. He's pushing in, over and over, until Clint screams with abandon, let's go and breaks apart.

Another burn, another scrape over sensitized places, and Steve shudders against him, goes still and heavy and oh, so warm.

They stay like that for a long while, small sounds still making their way out of Clint, Steve crooning at him softly. There's another burn when Steve pulls away and off, tugs at the condom, disposes of it. Clint's never thought of that either.

"You asked JARVIS about that, too," he mumbles and is barely able to lift one finger off the bed in a failed attempt at pointing.

"I asked where to buy and he made fun of me," he grumbles and Clint direly misses Steve's warmth against his back. But Steve is back with a wet tissue against sensitive muscles, making Clint hide his face into the sheets for a second. "He made me measure myself with a ruler," he continues, amusement in his voice and Clint's grateful for the distraction, laughter bubbling up.

Steve pushes at his side, rolls him around and suddenly Clint's way too exposed, rubbed raw. But Steve's hands finish cleaning him up quickly, and then he's pulled under the covers. They're facing each other, legs tangled, and Clint relaxes gradually, wrapped in the circle of Steve's arms.

"I don't think I'm going to be able to sit tomorrow," Clint pushes his nose in Steve's chest, inhales. He smells of sweat and sex and Clint.

"Good," Steve laughs and gets a lazy smack against his side for that.

"Next time's my turn," Clint counters, "see who can and who can't sit then."

Steve's laugh turns smug. "Unless you plan on putting your fist in me, I won't feel it for more than an hour."

Clint's head snaps up at that and he chokes on his own spit, coughing inelegantly, while Steve pats his back and laughs with his entire body. Clint loves it and when he can breathe again, he kisses Steve until he's panting. He turns a smug grin back at Steve and gets squeezed tightly for his efforts.

Sleep comes to Clint unawares, while he basks in contentment, the last thing on his mind Steve's mouth curved in a smile.

~

There's a loud banging poking at the edges of Clint's sleep infused mind. Next to him something shifts and he's burrowing tighter against the warmth.

"Come on, Capsicle, open up," he hears from the hallway. "JARVIS, open the door."

"I'm sorry, sir, but privacy protocols prevent me from opening the door at this moment."

"What privacy protocols, they weren't meant to work against me..." Stark's voice is muffled as he walks away.

Clint grins. "I love you, JARVIS," he mutters and the chest against his cheek shakes with silent laughter.

"I'm wounded," comes from somewhere above, and oh, Steve.

"I love you, too," he placates and the world goes still. "More than JARVIS," he adds for good measure cos now he's relatively more awake and he can feel Steve frozen beneath him.

"Asshole," Steve breathes, and his chest is heaving.

Clint is forced to blink his eyes open against the afternoon light flooding the room when he's pressed hard onto his back, lips and teeth, and morning breath. He absolutely loves it. Steve grins at him, shuffles around for a while, then pulls at his limbs, and Clint finds himself wrapped around Steve, thighs against hips, arms around shoulders.

One of Steve's hands comes up to cover his mouth and Clint has a fleeting moment of confusion before Steve's _inside_. He feels his eyes rolls in his head, back arching off the bed. There's a wave of heated pleasure emanating from inside him, and when the fuck did Steve have time to get lube.

He doesn't get to think about anything else anymore, Steve brushing against his insides like he wants to melt Clint into a pile of pleasure, and he removes his hand to breathe Clint's throaty sounds into his mouth. He's hard, so hard it hurts, and he pleads between Steve's lips. There's a hand, a broken vibrating sound in Steve's chest as he goes still above Clint, and he's coming, world white behind his eyelids.

It takes him a while to get his breath back, sharp fluttery movements behind his ribcage sending pulses of constricting pain around his chest. He's still shaking when Steve pulls back, takes him into the shower, washes him with gentle hands. He's mellow and pliant and utterly fucked. Really. Fucked. He can't stop the laughter, but Steve's laughing _with_ him.

Steve. Who killed for him, with him and nearly died for him. He places a kiss on the mostly healed collarbone as they dress, and it's only later, when they walk down the hallways to the kitchen, that Clint realizes he's not out of his mission high.

He can't shake it off, it's fused into him, like it was always supposed to be. He stops for a moment, leans into the wall, hands on his knees. Steve looks at him searchingly, but then nods and gives him the space, disappears through the kitchen door, into the sea of voices there. Clint breathes.

The him that woke up yesterday is gone. There is something else in its place, the twisted violence of Hawkeye thrumming under his skin, free like it's never been before, even wrapped in the Clint Barton shape that's been left behind after Steve Rogers, insanely and forcefully, had carved into him and broken him wide open.

He follows when he collects himself, sliding into the full kitchen. There are a couple of pizza boxes on the counter, space packed.

Stark offers a loud, "good morning, Merida, nice of you to grace us with your presence," and everyone's looking at him.

Natasha stops whatever she'd been discussing with Banner on the far end of the counter, Thor looks up from his plate on the other side next to Stark, and Steve is sitting on a stool at the edge, leaning sideways into the countertop, legs open at an angle in front of him. Clint slides forward and inserts himself into that space, leaning with the small of his back onto Steve's thigh, knowing it will hold him up. He can't really sit down anyway.

Stark drops his pizza slice and Banner laughs in his hand. Steve's grinning against his shoulder and Clint can't help himself.

"So, doc," he turns his head to Banner, "about that naked yoga pose you were going to show us..."

There's choking and laughter, loud voices and chaos. And a warm hand on his back, helping him carry his ghosts, reminding him he's alive.

~End~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, so, ok, I wrote this. Any feedback is appreciated. Also, someone tell me if the tags are ok. Also, it's not beta'd and I keep seeing weird spelling mistakes. Sorry about that.
> 
> 25.07.15: it is now beta'd by Lily the Cat, aka. LilyT, aka. gummybear fighter.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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